ARTHUR    CARRYL 

ETC. 


ARTHUR   CARRYL 


A    NOVEL 


THE    AUTHOR    OF    THE    VISION    O.F    RUBETA 


CANTOS    FIRST    AND    SECOND 


ODES ;  EPISTLES  TO  MILTON,  POPE,  JUVENAL, 

AND  THE  DEVIL  ;  EPIGRAMS ;  PARODIES  OF  HORACE ; 

ENGLAND  AS  SHE   IS;  AND  OTHER 

MINOR  POEMS 

BY     THE     SAME 


NEW   YORK 

D. APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
MDCCCXLI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1841,  by 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 

the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


PS 


EPIGRAM    SALUTATORY. 


On  learning  from  my  publishers,  that  the  editor  of  the 
World  had  come  out  with  a  string  of  amusing  falsehoods,  i] 
lation  to  the  present  work. 


WHY,  let  him.    'T  is  a  proper  youth ; 
And  each  of  us  his  business  plies  : 
I  satirize  by  telling  truth  ; 
And  B— j N,  by  telling  lies. 


91678 


CONTENTS. 


THE  INDUCTION. 

A  Summer  Evening,  page  xi.  The  Backsides  of  an  American  City,  xii. 
Present  State  of  Polite  Literature,  xiii.  Criticism  of  the  Day,  xiv. 
Cant,  xiv.  Moral  and  Religious  Sentiment,  xv.  Hypocrisy  in  Public 
Speakers,  xvi.  The  Price  of  Public  Favor,  xvii.  The  Fate  of  a  Re- 
former, xviii.  England  vs.  other  Nations,  xix.  Rash  Criticism,  xx. 
CAMPBELL,  as  a  Poet,  xxi.  CAMPBELL,  as  a  Prose  Writer,  xxii. 
American  Critics,  xxiv.  Germanized  English,  xxv.  British  Critics, 
xxv.  Consequences  of  the  Neglect  of  Verbal  Criticism,  xxvi.  Art 
and  Nature,  xxvii.  Powers  of  the  Imagination,  xxviii.  The  Imagina- 
tion, in  the  Composition  of  Poetry,  xxix.  The  Poet  is  born,  not  made, 
xxx.  Puerile  or  Commonplace  Poetry,  xxxi.  The  Author's  Juvenile 
Poetry,  xxxii :  The  Farewell.  The  Ride,  xxxiii.  5  The  Camp  by  Moon- 
light, xxxiv. ;  Death  in  a  Dungeon,  xxxv. ;  Death  in  the  Wave.  Death 
in  Battle,  xxxvi. ;  Battle.  The  Night  March,  xxxvii. ;  The  Conflagra- 
tion, xxxviii.  The  Poetry  of  a  Man,  xxxix.  The  Danger  of  opposing 
Popular  Taste,  xli.  MOLIERE'S  Misanthrope,  xlii.  TASSONI'S  Fig, 
xliii.  The  Amend,  xliii.  The  Present  Volume,  xliv. :  Epistle  to  Satan, 
xiv. ;  Arthur  Carryl,  xlvi.  Revenge  not  always  Malice,  xlvii.  Double 
Rhymes,  xlviii.  Inexactness  of  Rhyme  in  English  Poets,  1.  The  Pres- 
ent Volume  :  Epigram  XV.,  lii.  Independence  of  Thought  in  the 
UNITED  STATES,  liii.  Fame,  Ivi.  Immortality,  Ivii. 

ARTHUR  CARRYL.    CANTO  I. 

Descriptive  Poets,  6.  Proem,  7.  The  Dover  Packet,  8.  The  Hunch- 
back, 9.  The  Aldus,  10.  The  Struggle,  11.  The  wounded  Eye,  12. 
The  Defiance,  13.  FELIX,  14.  GRENVILLE  SUTTON,  15.  The 
Cousins,  1G.  EPICURUS,  17,  DIOGENES,  18.  The  Passengers,  19. 


vi  CONTENTS. 

The  Princesses,  20.  BIANCA  GAIOCORE,  21.  The  English  Party,  25. 
CICERO  PEBBLE,  26.  Mrs.  PEBBLE,  27.  CONSTANCE  VERE,  28. 
The  Tourists,  35.  The  Savoyard,  36.  The  Herb  of  Virtue,  37. 
DESSANTI,  38.  ESTELLE,  41.  The  Air  of  Distinction,  42.  ESTELLE, 
43.  Madonnas,  46.  The  Woodland  Lake,  48.  ESTELLE,  50.  The 
Hall  of  Introduction,  51. 

ARTHUR  CARRYL.     CANTO  II. 

Sympathy,  56.  CARRYL  in  bad  Odor,  58.  A  Change  of  Feeling,  59. 
The  Prejudice  wearing  off,  60.  Cupid  in  Prospect,  61.  Cupid  comes 
nigher,  62.  CARRYL'S  Foible,  63.  CARRYL'S  Nature,  poetical,  65. 
Cupid  sounds  to  Arms,  and  the  Engagement  commences,  66.  Physi- 
ognomy, 68.  Distrust,  69.  A  Journey,  in  Imagination,  homeward,  70. 
The  Conversation,  72.  Professed  Travellers,  73.  Cupid  contempla- 
tive, 74.  The  Conversation  resumed,  76.  FELIX,  77.  BIANCA'S 
Plan  for  CARRYL'S  Tour,  78.  Maids  and  Wives  in  Europe,  80.  Phi- 
losophy and  Folly,  81.  CARRYL  again  in  bad  Odor,  83.  Lovers  and 
Landscapes,  84.  The  Pier,  86.  Caprice,  87.  Sterne's  Room,  89. 
The  Siege  of  Calais,  90.  EUSTACE  superseded,  102.  The  Rencoun- 
ter, 103.  CARRYL  offers  his  Services,  106.  The  Promenade,  107. 
Gallantry,  103.  The  Exchange,  109.  An  unpleasant  Interruption, 
110.  One  too  many,  111.  The  Bore,  112.  PEBBLE'S  Perseverance, 
113.  The  History  of  CICERO  PEBBLE,  114.  The  Rambler,  116.  The 
Appointment,  118.  The  Happiness  of  Amiability,  119.  Some  Good 
in  every  Thing,  121.  Wantonness  of  Fortune,  122.  CARRYL  com- 
mences the  Story,  123.  The  Story  of  the  Hunchback,  124.  The 
Story  interrupted,  134. 


-,— TH,  18— ."     PAGE  137. 


ODES. 

Preface.  —  Division  of  the  Ode,  p.  151.  General  Character  of  Lyric  Po- 
etry, 152.  GRAY,  152.  Abuse  of  Figurative  Language,  152.  CAMP- 
BELL, 154.  Present  State  of  English  Versification,  156.  Rythm  ;  at 
Times  apparently  violated,  with  Advantage,  157.  Examination  of 
SOUTHEY'S  Versification,  159. 

ODE    I.  Death  of  General  PIKE p.  165 

II.  Battle  of  Lake  Champlain 167 

HI.  Defence  of  NEW  ORLEANS 170 

Lafayette  in  America 174 

ODE  IV.  Prelude 177 

V.  The  Vision  .    .    .    .    • 178 

VI.  The  Wish    .  .  180 


CONTENTS.  vii 

VII.    The  Roses • p.  181 

VIII.     Regret 183 

IX.    La  Consolazione    .     .     .     .     • 186 

X.     (Canzonet) 190 

XI.    (Canzonet) 191 

EPISTLES. 

Preface.  —  Dactylic  Hexameter,  not  suitable  to  English  Verse;  why? 
p.  195.  Its  Melody,  197.  Ccesural  Pause,  197.  Quantity  and  Accent 
essentially  the  Same,  both  in  Ancient  and  Modern  Verse,  198.  Struc- 
ture of  the  English  Heroic  Measure,  200.  Superiority  of  the  Versifi- 
cation of  Pope  and  of  Dryden,  to  what  owing  ?  201.  Heroic  Verse  as 
now  usually  constructed,  201. 

EPISTLE  I.  To  MILTON p.  203 

II.  To  POPE • 213 

III.  To  JUVENAL 221 

IV.  To  SATAN    .    • 227 

SONNETS. 

I.  The  Reproach  of  VENUS 265 

II.  The  Pilgrims  for  Love 266 

III.  Allegoria 267 

IV.  The  Prayer 268 

V.  The  Ringlet 269 

VI.    The  Lover's  Heaven 270 

EPIGRAMS. 

I.  The  Preference 273 

II.  Euthanasia 273 

III.  The  Prude 274 

IV.  A  Virgin 274 

V.  ToH rW THL GF w 275 

VI.  To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY 275 

VII.  To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 276 

VIII.  To  Messrs.  SOUTHEY  and  WORDSWORTH  ....  276 

IX.  Philanthropy 277 

X.  The  Demagogue 278 

XI.  The  Panegyrist • 278 

XII.  To  a  Flirt 279 

XIII.  To  a  Coquette 279 

XIV.  To  a  Mannikin 280 

XV.  ToJ sW NW— BB     .  .  280 


viii  CONTENTS. 

XVI.  Prudence ,    .    p.  282 

XVII.  La  meme  en  Francais 282 

XVIII.  To  the  "  Poets  of  America,  edited  by  J— N  K— E  "  .  283 

XIX.  Consolation  to  one  who  was  not  noticed  in  the  Vision  284 

XX.  On  a  Zealous  Hypocrite 285 

XXI.  On  the  Name  given  to  the  Hero  of  the  Vision  .     .     .  285 

XXII.  Inscription  for  a  Newsman's  Watercloset    ....  286 

XXIII.  Epitaph 286 

XXIV.  To  a  fair  Neighbour,  retiring  for  the  Night  ....  287 
XXV.  (Madrigale) 288 

XXIV.  (Madrigal) 288 

PARODIES  OF  HORACE. 

Advertisement 291 

ODE    I.  To  the  Lute 295 

II.  To  SYBIL 297 

III.  To  THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD 299 

IV.  To  the  Public 301 

V.  To  Anybody 303 

VI.  To  CH s  A N 305 

VII.  On  SYBIL 307 

VIII.  To  E.  C. '—  R 309 

IX.  ToRuBETA 311 

X.  To  WORDSWORTH 313 

ENGLAND,  — AS  SHE  IS.    A  SATIRE.     PAGE  321. 
TRIFLES. 

I.  Triolet 335 

II.  Rondeau 335 

III.  The  Loan 336 

IV.  Stances 337 

V.  The  Children  in  the  Road  j  a  Touching  Story  .     .    .  338 

VI.  A  donna  dona 343 

VII.  Paraphrase 343 

VIII.  Serenade 344 

IX.  Table  Song 345 

X.  Song 347 

XI.  Woman ;  an  Apologue 348 

FRAGMENT  IN  CONTINUATION  OF  THE  VISION  OF 
RUBETA.     PAGE  351. 


THE    INDUCTION. 


THE    INDUCTION. 


You  will  not  have  forgotten,  my R,  the  request  you 

lately  made,  that  I  would  detail  to  you  the  conversation,  which, 
a  few  weeks  previously,  I  had  had  with  our  mutual  friend, 

W ,  and  of  which  he  had  related  to  you  part.  I  have 

thought,  that,  besides  ministering  to  your  gratification  and  in- 
struction, the  scene  if  written  out  would  form  for  my  new 
volume  of  rhymes  no  unfitting  preface.  W was,  as  per- 
haps you  know,  my  agent  with  the  publishers  of  the  Vision, 
and  overlooked  that  poem  in  its  progress  through  the  press. 
Hence,  during  its  brief  career  he  watched  it  with  parental 
solicitude,  and  even  aided  with  his  pen,  as  you  have  seen  in 
the  Critique  of  the  Vision,  in  making  ridiculous  its  unprincipled 
defamers.  In  a  word,  he  was  rny  other  self. 

It  was  then  a  beautiful  afternoon,  of  the  month  preceding 

this  in  which  I  write.  W had  come  to  see  me,  and  was 

seated  with  me  in  the  little  library,  whose  double  window 
faces,  as  you  are  aware,  the  west.  The  casement  was  open  ; 
and  the  blinds,  thrown  half  way  back,  shielded  us  from  the 
slant  rays  of  the  summer  sun,  which  was  now  slowly  wester- 
ing, and  would,  ere  long  be  lost  behind  the  houses'  tops.  Be- 
tween us  on  a  table,  where  stood  a  bottle  of  his  favorite 
claret,  ice  clearer  than  crystal,  and  some  foreign  fruits,  was  a 
vase  filled  to  the  brim  with  newly  gathered  roses.  In  the 
balcony,  the  plants  had  never  looked  more  lovely.  The  pur- 
ple giiia  was  in  bloom,  the  delicate  schizanthus  with  its  jagged 
flowers,  the  copper-colored  streptanthera,  the  irritable  mimu- 
l 


xit  THE  BACKSIDES  OF  AN  AMERICAN  CITY. 

lus,  with  its  blushing  petals  and  its  musky  perfume,  and  the 

rosy  calandrinia,  which gave  me  ;  while  your  favorite 

calochortus,  just  in  bud,  the  showy  lichidnea  with  its  crown  of 
blossoms,  nearly  opened,  the  painted  ipomopsis,  the  camellia 
(once  my  sister's),  which  had  long  ago  shed  its  scentless  beau- 
ties, and  the  tall  green  Ethiopian  calla,  looked,  if  not  so 
gay,  yet  flourishing,  and  varied  pleasantly  the  vegetable  group. 
Without,  in  the  neighbouring  yards,  every  thing  was  in  cor- 
respondence. The  grapevines,  clambering  up  to  the  windows, 
covered  the  piazzas  ;  and  here  and  there,  between  the  dense 
broad  leaves,  a  cluster  could  be  seen,  green  as  the  leaves  them- 
selves; while  flowers  of  various  hues  bordered  the  little  grass- 
plots,  or  stood  in  pots,  or  in  open  beds,  against  the  whited 
walls.  Above,  the  sky  was  blue  as  indigo  ;  and  sundry  fleecy 
clouds  gave  promise  of  no  little  beauty  when  the  sun  should 
have  descended  lower.  The  wrens  were  singing  round  their 
tiny  house  between  the  willows,  interrupting  at  intervals  their 
delightful  song  with  a  twitter  scarcely  less  agreeable ;  and,  to 
add  to  all,  a  gentle  breeze  was  blowing  capriciously  from  the 
westward,  and,  as  it  breathed  over  the  flowers  in  the  balcony, 
wafted  perfume  with  its  coolness  into  the  apartment.  It  was 
altogether  a  scene  such  as  few  large  cities  can  present,  and  an 
hour  and  weather  that  to  those  who  are  in  health,  and  are  of 
happy  temper,  give  a  positive  enjoyment,  such  as  is  sufficient 
to  atone  for  months  of  past  gloom  and  solicitude,  and  to  make 
them  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  for  the  heart  as  care,  or 
for  the  senses  as  fatigue,  that  skies  are  ever  blackened,  and  that 
flowers  ever  fade. 

Accordingly  W sat  awhile  in  silence ;  and  the  first 

remark  that  opened  our  dialogue  was  suggested  by  the  scene 
before  hirn. 

W.  What  an  evening,  ERNEST  ! 

A.  Beautiful !  Few  cities,  W ,  are  so  favored  in  their 

climate  as  this  unromantic,  busy  NEW  YORK. 

W.  Still  fewer  are  there,  I  imagine,  where  the  people  take 


PRESENT  STATE  OF  POLITE  LITERATURE.        xiii 

such  pains  to  surround  themselves  with  the  wholesome  beauty 
of  the  country.  Do  you  know,  I  am  much  inclined  at  this  mo- 
ment to  believe  in  all  the  influence  you  ascribe  to  the  climate, 
in  shaping  our  yet  unfinished  physical  and  intellectual  charac- 
ter as  a  people. 

A.  In  connexion  with  the  free  government,  remember.  Yes, 
AMERICA,  with  her  clear  skies,  her  republican  institutions,  and 
her  system  of  universal  education,  must  one  day  excel  in  all 
that  has  made  GREECE  famous. 

W.  Excepting,  I  hope,  her  intestine  dissensions. 

A.  Of  course.  In  all  that  has  made  her  justly  famous.  But 
then,  we  must  not  be  misled  by  false  teachers. 

W.  And  these  abound  ;  at  least  in  politics  and  in  letters.  In 
morals  we  have  few,  if  any :  it  is  not  the  character  of  the  age. 

A.  To  teach  corruption  openly,  certainly  not.  But  if  you 
have  false  teachers  in  politics  and  in  letters,  how  shall  morality 
escape  contamination  ?  But,  to  confine  ourselves  to  letters ; 
(they  are  not  nearly  of  such  moment  to  the  happiness  of  a 
people,  as  politics  ;  yet,  for  the  immediate  time,  they  interest 
me  more  ;)  look  at  the  rapid  declension  of  taste,  in  ENGLAND 
as  well  as  in  this  country.  To  what,  think  you,  is  it  owing  ? 

W.  To  false  teachers,  undoubtedly.  But  whether  do  you 
mean,  to  authors  or  to  critics  ? 

A,  To  both.  They  act,  each  upon  the  other,  as  both  cause 
and  effect.  Yet  it  would  be  in  the  power  of  criticism  to  stay 
the  decline,  certainly  in  a  degree.  Therefore  it  is  owing  chief- 
ly to  false  critics:  false,  not  merely  as  erroneous,  but  as  being 
unfaithful  to  the  duties  they  assume.  But  I  will  not  spoil  your 
afternoon,  by  argumentation.  That  would  be  a  bad  requital  of 
your  visit,  W . 

W.  Do  not  think  so.  You  could  oblige  me  in  nothing  more. 
Indeed,  have  I  not  come  for  the  very  purpose  of  talking  about 
your  new  poems  ? 

A.  Which  you  consider  an  illustration  of  the  subject,  —  false 


xiy  CRITICISM  OF  THE  DAY.    CANT. 

teaching  by  authors.    But  let  us  open  this  claret.    I  think  it 
will  suit  you,  —  quite  as  well,  at  least,  as  my  rhymes. 

W.  It  would  serve  you  right  to  say,  Heaven  forbid  !  But, 
in  truth,  ERNEST,  if  it  were  as  easy  to  satisfy  the  world  with 
your  opinions  in  letters  as  ... 

A.  It  is  to  suit  your  taste  in  wine,  my  task  would  be  a  light 
one.  (Ice?)  Well,  —  I  have  said  that  the  decline  of  taste  in 
English  and  American  writers  is  owing  chiefly  to  false  criti- 
cism. Now,  what  is  the  criticism  of  the  day  ?  I  mean,  in  what 
manner  is  it  conducted  ?  Reviewers  now,  if  they  ,do  not  take 
the  title  of  a  book  merely  to  introduce  an  essay  of  their  own, 
which  is  usually  the  case,  yet  content  themselves  with  exam- 
ining the  sentiments. 

W.  What,  do  you  not  consider  the  sentiments  as  the  most 
important  part  ? 

A.  I  do  indeed  ;  but,  being  a  part,  they  are  not  the  whole. 
I  would  observe,  that  I  consider  that  very  little  criticism  will 
do  for  the  sentiments  of  any  poem,  for  example  ;  for  what  is 
there  new  in  that  respect  ?  it  is  the  manner  that  distinguishes 
the  poet  chiefly ;  for  that  which  he  shall  detail  to  us  of  thought 
has  been  done  time  out  of  mind  before  him.  Besides,  I  am 
utterly  disgusted  with  that  cant,  which  is  confirming  authors 
in  hypocrisy.  If  a  man  now  make  a  display  of  patriotism,  if 
he  prate  of  his  country,  and  affect  to  despise  his  own  interest, 
what  do  we  hear  ?  JVb&Ze  sentiments  ;  high-toned  sentiment ; 
and  the  like.  If  he  tell  us  of  the  delights  of  virtue  and  the 
misery  of  vice,  we  have,  a  tone  of  high  morality,  and  so  on.  If 
of  religion  and  the  undying  worm,  and  other  common-places, 
all  NEW  YORK  resounds  with  praises  of  his  piety.  To  me,  this 
is  inexpressibly  disgusting ;  and  I  never  have  doubted,  from 
my  own  feelings,  that  Lord  BYRON  was  driven  to  his  defiance 
of  decency,  by  his  hatred  of  hypocrisy. 

W.  But  would  you  have  one,  then,  neglect  such  sentiments, 
or  confine  them  to  his  breast  ?  for  I  do  you  justice  to  believe, 
that  you  do  not  approve  of  that  more  odious  affectation,  which 
would  teach  us  libertinism. 


MORAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  SENTIMENT.  XV 

Jl.  No,  not  exactly  ;  but  I  would  have  them  taken  for  just 
what  they  are  worth.  Do  we  not  know,  that  it  is  not  by 
words  we  are  to  judge  of  virtue  ?  that,  on  the  contrary,  it 
is  a  safe  rule  to  suppose  that  the  man  who  has  piety,  jus- 
tice, and  temperance  for  ever  on  his  lips,  knows  little  in  his 
heart  of  any  of  these  virtues?  An  author,  therefore,  should 
not  have  credit  for  what  is  nothing  of  his  own  ;  I  say,  abso- 
lutely, nothing  of  his  own,  but  the  common  property  of  every 
rogue  and  hypocrite  in  the  country.  Let  his  moral,  his  lofty 
sentiments  be  respected  ;  but  there,  if  he  can  give  us  nothing 
further,  let  his  commendation  stop  ;  for  we  do  not,  I  conceive, 
open  a  book  of  poetry  to  find  what  is  readier  to  our  hands, 
and  more  explicit,  in  the  proverbs  of  SOLOMON. 

W.  But,  permit  me  to  observe,  that  one  sentiment  thus  in- 
troduced, by  accident  as  it  were,  will  have  more  effect  than 
where  it  is  found  amid  a  mass  of  others,  as  in  the  book  you 
have  mentioned. 

Jl.  I  do  not  deny  it.  But  you  might  have  added,  that  the 
example  which  should  illustrate  the  sentiment  will  have  more 
weight  still.  A  poet,  unless  he  be  purely  a  didactic  poet,  may 
make  his  morality  appear  by  his  characters,  and  not  in  his 
proper  person  as  an  author.  It  is  thus  that  HOMER  teaches. 

W,  Ah  !  I  fear  that  in  this  world  your  proposed  reform  will 
never  be  adopted.  Hypocrisy  has  too  much  weight,  that  it 
should  not  be  thrown  into  the  scale  whenever  a  character  is 
brought  to  market.  As  long,  for  instance,  as  a  man  is  counted 
modest,  who  tells  his  readers,  in  the  preface  of  a  volume,  that 
he  has  no  opinion  of  his  own  merits,  but  trusts  to  their  conde- 
scending goodness,  what  can  you  expect  but  that  he  should 
thus  sin  against  his  conscience  ? 

JL  That  he  should  starve.  Better  a  thousand  times  to  rot 
in  destitution,  than  to  owe  one's  fortune  to  the  prostitution  of 
one's  self-respect !  I  atn  incensed,  when  I ...  But,  go  on  ; 
for  I  am  getting  warm. 

W.  You  surprise  me,  ERNEST.  Though  I  think  with  you 
6* 


XVI  HYPOCRISY  IN  PUBLIC  SPEAKERS. 

that  all  this  is  hypocrisy,  it  awakes  iny  laughter;  it  amuses  me, 
not  irritates.  What !  rny  dear  fellow,  can  any  thing  be  more 
farcical,  than  to  read  in  the  papers  that  Mr.  So  and  So  got 
up  and  said,  that  for  his  own  part  he  set  self  entirely  aside, 
he  was  for  his  country,  and  for  his  country  only,  that  when  a 
sacrifice  of  one's  own  interest  was  to  be  made,  ivhat  honest  man 
would  hesitate'?  whereupon  all  the  people  shouted,  like  great 
asses  as  they  were  ?  This  is  sport  to  me,  and  should  be  so  to 
you,  who  are  not  the  sourest  of  cynics. 

A.  And  so  it  would  be,  if  it  had  no  weight  with  the  people. 
But  when  I  see  that  all  this  cant,  which  no  man  who  has  a 
proper  pride  would  condescend  to  adopt,  when  I  see  that  this 
is  trusted  in,  rewarded  ! .  . . 
W.  You  should  still  laugh. 

A.  And  so  I  would  as  a  satirist,  but  I  do  not  as  a  man. 
,, — W,  But  what  would  you  have  the  people  do  ? 

A.  Do?  pull  the  speaker  from  his  stage,  that  durst  insult 
their  ears  by  language  that  offends  nature  and  bids  defiance  to 
common  sense. 

W.  Very  good  ;  but  you  should  then  have  the  people  more 
virtuous  than  their  haranguer ;  for  you  may  depend  upon  it, 
that  those  will  shout  the  loudest,  that  have  least  of  sympathy 
with  what  the  orator  affects  to  be  his  feelings. 

A.  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  right.  I  remember  that  when  I 
was  graduated,  a  very  great  fool  was  applauded,  in  his  decla- 
mation, at  every  sentence.  Need  I  say  why  ?  Because  he 
affected  an  ardent  love  of  all  that  is  excellent,  and  a  scorn  for 
what  is  base.  Yet  he  was  the  merest  puppy  in  the  class. 

W.  And  so  I  should  have  thought  him.  Yet  does  not  this 
evince  an  innate  love  of  virtue,  in  humanity?  Though  frail 
themselves,  the  crowd  applaud  the  appearance  of  excellence 
in  others,  or  respect  the  abstract  principle. 

A.  Respect  a  fiddlestick !  It  is  their  vanity  which  applauds. 
Each  man  thinks  he  sees,  in  his  own  little  soul,  the  reflected 


THE  PRICE  OF  PUBLIC  FAVOR.  xvii 

image  of  every  virtue  which  is  described,  and  praising  it  he 
does  homage  to  himself.  Why,  what  is  it  but  the  same  vanity 
which  makes  a  multitude  the  fools  of  their  own  assumed 
greatness  ? 

W.  As  how  ? 

A.  Look  at  the  next  news  from  ENGLAND.  You  will  find 
there,  in  the  reported  speeches  of  parliament,  the  notes  of  ad- 
miration, applause,  and  attention,  which  are  given  at  certain 
passages  in  the  orator's  address.  They  will  answer  for  the 
same  scenes  with  us :  though  the  habit  of  applauding  is  not  the 
same,  yet  the  feeling  which  generates  it  you  may  believe  to 
belong  to  both  countries.  Well,  what  do  you  find  these  pas- 
sages to  be?  My  lord  So  and  So,  or  Mr.  SUCH  A  ONE,  tells 
his  honorable  or  his  noble  colleague,  that  ENGLAND  is  the 
greatest  of  all  nations ;  "  Hear,  hear !  "  resounds  from  all  sides ; 
that  she  is  the  justest;  "  loud  cheering"  greets  the  falsehood  ; 
that  ten  FRENCHMEN  have  not  the  solidity  of  character,  twenty 
DUTCHMEN  not  the  generosity  of  spirit,  fifty  RUSSIANS  not  the 
liberality  of  sentiment,  and  that  no  AMERICAN  has  the  political 
freedom,  that  one  ENGLISHMAN  possesses  and  enjoys  ;  and  the 
member,  or  the  peer,  sits  down,  amid  "loud  and  continued 
cheering." 

W.  And  is  not  all  this  amusing  ? 

A.  No,  I  burn  as  I  read  it. 

W.  You  must  excuse  me,  ERNEST  ;  you  burn,  because  you 
feel  indignant  that  hypocrisy  should  gain  what  is  denied  to 
honesty.  But  you  should  reflect . . . 

A.  What  ? 

W.  That  honesty  is  its  own  reward ;  that,  if  you  are  not 
content  to  pay  for  public  favor  what  A.,  B.,  and  C.,  are  ready 
to  do,  you  must  rest  content  to  do  without  it.  As  an  author, 
you  defy  public  sentiment ;  you  speak  as  you  think  ; . . . 

A.  And  am  I  not  right  ? 

W.  Be  patient.  Right  in  holding  such  opinions.  But,  to 
give  them  uncalled  for  .  .  . 


XVlii  THE  FATE  OF  A  REFORMER. 

A.  There  I  am  right  too.    If  no  one  else  will  lead,  let  me. 

W.  And  perish  in  the  breach.  —  It  is  honorable.  But  there 
lies  all  your  reward  ;  nor  must  you  expect  to  be  crowned, 
while  living,  with  laurels  that  are  to  be  gained  by  your  death 
alone. 

JL  To  drop  figures  . .  . 

W.  If  you  will  oppose  the  majority,  you  must  expect  the 
majority  will  turn  upon  you,  and  annihilation  is  the  conse- 
quence. But . .  . 

A.  Well ;  this  but. 

W.  But,  ERNEST, —  if  the  respect  of  your  own  conscience, 
and  the  love  of  those  who  know  you,  and  justice  done  to  your 
ashes,  will  requite  you  for  the  sacrifice  of  worldly  good,  go  on. 

A.  And  so  I  will.  Have  I,  for  the  best  part  of  my  life,  con- 
tinued in  the  straight  path,  though  surrounded  by  privation, 
and  having  disappointment  for  ever  in  prospect,  that  I  should 
now  turn  aside  ?  However,  you  mistake  me  somewhat ;  nor, 
in  assenting  to  your  observation,  have  I  done  myself  strict 
justice.  It  may  be,  I  allow,  that  a  personal  feeling  might  give 
edge  to  my  opposition  to  one  or  two  popular  authors,  because 
I  stand  as  a  knight  in  the  lists,  and  cannot  conquer  but  by  the 
overthrow  of  my  antagonists.  It  is  a  conflict  of  opinion,  and  to 
the  utterance.,  But  my  hatred  of  political  hypocrisy,  as  of  cant 
of  all  kinds,  can  have  nothing  selfish  in  its  nature.  WORDS- 
WORTH might  offend  my  spleen,  because  I  see  him  daily  com- 
mended for  what  I  despise,  and  my  philosophy  might  (might, 
I  say,  for  I  do  not  believe  it,  though  I  may  allow  the  case  for 
argument,)  and  my  philosophy  might  not,  perhaps,  be  proof 
against  the  consequences  of  my  own  pride  and  honesty,  in 
pursuing  what  I  think  is  proper,  in  defiance  of  that  fashion, 
which  I  well  know  must  be  followed  to  arrive  at  popularity  ; 
but  what  to  me  is  the  Emperor  of  RUSSIA  ? 

W.  I  do  not  understand  you. 

A.  No  ?  Yet  yesterday,  when  inveighing  against  the  inso- 
lence of  the  press  in  ENGLAND  towards  foreign  nations,  I  men- 


ENGLAND  VS.  OTHER  NATIONS.  xix 

tioned  to  you  that  so  respectable  a  man  as******  ****»»** 
had  at  a  public  dinner,  some  years  since,  degraded  himself  so 
far,  and  befooled  himself,  as  to  call  the  Czar  a  "  miscreant "; 
for  what?  for  retaining  his  inheritance,  for  endeavouring  to 
keep  POLAND  secured  to  him  !  This  is  not  ignorance  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  ********;  it  is  a  disregard  of  truth.  He  is  en- 
listed in  the  Polish  cause,  because  one  of  the  finest  passages  in 

his happens  to  turn  upon  Polish  misfortune,  and, 

in  his  enthusiasm,  he  forgets  decency  and  common  sense,  or, 
what  is  as  mean  if  not  as  bad,  but  echoes  public  outcry.  Yet, 
while  ENGLAND  is  indulging,  on  all  occasions,  in  this  outcry, 
against  one  of  the  best  men,  as  well  as  most  able,  that  wear  a 
crown,  INDIA,  won  by  treachery,  is  maintained  by  a  despotism 
greater,  because  not  native  to  the  soil,  than  that  of  RUSSIA. 
Enthroned  upon  her  double  isle,  the  tyrant  of  the  ocean  points 
with  the  middle  finger  of  one  hand  to  Muscovitish  vassalage, 
and  with  that  of  the  other  would  mark  with  scorn  the  slavery 
which  she  herself  introduced  into  AMERICA,  while  her  yoke 
upon  INDIA  is  more  distressing  and  more  hated  than  can  pos- 
sibly be  the  sceptre  of  a  monarch  over  a  people  that  love  him, 
and  that  look  upon  him  as  their  legitimate  ruler  delegated  by 
HEAVEN,  and  the  bondage  of  the  ryots  ten  times  more  abject 
and  a  hundred  times  more  cruel  than  that  of  the  negroes  in 
these  UNITED  STATES.  All  this  offends  me.  I  am  enraged  to 
see  people  either  afraid  to  speak  the  truth,  or  unwilling  to  hear 
it.  And  it  is  this  resentment  of  cant,  that  has  made  me  what  I 
am  as  an  author,  and  that  will  so  retain  me.  —  But  let  us  pass 
to  the  more  immediate  subject  of  discussion.  We  were  speak- 
ing ...  I  have  strayed  so  far  from  the  right  topic,  that  I  have 
lost  sight  of  it  altogether. 

W.  The  present  corruption  of  taste  in  literature. 

A.  True,  that  was  the  general  subject  But  I  mean  ...  I 
liave  it ;  false  criticism.  I  said,  that  the  sentiments  of  an  au- 
thor, or  his  general  matter  was  all  that  was  now  considered  by 
the  critic.  Consequently  his  language  is  entirely  neglected ; 


XX  RASH  CRITICISM. 

or,  what  is  worse,  we  have  his  manner  regarded  as  an  absolute 
consequence  of  his  matter;  and,  if  the  latter  suit  the  critic,  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  conveyed  is  boldly  eulogized,  with  all 
the  cant  additions  of  graphic,  elegant,  polished,  pure,  and  the 
like.  As  these  epithets  are  applied  indiscriminately  to  every 
sort  of  writing,  provided  it  come  from  the  pen  of  a  popular 
author,  even  though  he  be,  to  the  last  degree,  weak  and  ob- 
scure in  description,  and  quite  uncouth  in  style,  though  he 
possess  none  of  the  many  requisites  that  go  to  make  up  the 
character  of  elegance,  and  finally  may  use  a  language  that,  like 
Mr.  CARLTLE'S,  shall  in  phraseology  and  in  construction  be 
absolutely  hybrid,  we  are  to  conclude  that  the  terms  have  no 
other  meaning  than  that  the  writer  under  examination  is  one 
whom  the  worshipful  booksellers,  or  the  no  less  worshipful 
public,  or  both  these  parties  together,  expect  to  see  commended. 
Here,  under  my  feet,  I  see  there  is  a  fragment  of  a  newspaper 
with  the  name  of  Campbell  on  it.  Let  us  examine  it :  ten  to 
one,  it  will  form  an  illustration  of  what  I  have  just  been  say- 
ing. Campbell's  Life  of  Petrarch  ;  an  extract.  Very  good.  It 
is  without  a  beginning ;  but  it  will  answer,  I  '11  be  bound  to 
say.  You  know  how  that  book  has  been  bepraised  on  all  sides. 

W.  As  far  as  the  small  reviews,  the  minnows  of  criticism, 
are  concerned.  The  larger  fry  I  have  not  met  with. 

A.  It  is  of  no  consequence.  It  is  more  than  probable  that 
in  the  present  case  you  would  have  found  them  gudgeons. 
The  mere  prefix  of  Mr.  CAMPBELL'S  name  to  a  book  is  suf- 
ficient to  ensure  the  latter  eulogy  with  half  the  world ;  yet  is 
CAMPBELL  any  thing  but  a  faultless  writer. 

W.  Indeed  ?  I  thought  that  you  were  one  of  the  poet's 
warmest  admirers. 

A.  One  of  his  steadiest  admirers,  if  you  please,  and  if  you 
must  have  an  epithet;  for  warmth,  applied  to  literary  taste  or 
judgment,  always  implies,  with  me,  some  degree  of  extrava- 
gance or  of  exaggeration.  I  do  admire  CAMPBELL,  or,  I  would 
rather  say,  esteem  him,  as  a  poet.  I  call  him,  as  you  know,  an 


CAMPBELL,  AS  A  POET.  XXI 

elegant  poet.  But  in  so  speaking  I  allude  to  the  general  effect 
of  his  verses,  to  their  polish,  their  sweetness,  their  harmonious 
arrangement,  to  the  general  good  taste  and  the  general  grace  of 
their  embellishments.  I  have  never  called  him  correct.  At 
some  future  day,  I  will  run  over  with  you  the  Pleasures  of 
Hope,  and  I  will  show  you,  that,  besides  other  occasional 
faults,  such  as  confused  or  inapplicable  imagery,  strained,  or 
common-place,  or  obscure  epithets,  and  turgidness,  there  are 
few  pages  where  the  writer  has  not  somewhere  sinned  against 
propriety  of  language.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  am  confident, 
that  we  shall  find  his  prose  not  more  uncensurable. 

W.  May  not  a  writer  be  incorrect  in  the  mere  language  of 
his  poems,  who  shall  yet  display  the  most  exact  propriety  in 
his  prose  compositions  ? 

A.  Certainly,  in  a  degree.  Not  to  speak  of  the  heat  of  fancy, 
the  emergencies  of  his  rhyme  and  rythm,  and  sometimes,  as 
in  blank  verse,  of  his  rythm  only,  will  cause  him  to  commit 
errors  that  would  be  without  excuse  in  prose.  But  Mr.  CAMP- 
BELL in  his  verse  is  so  filled  with  merely  verbal  inaccuracies, 
that,  taking  the  age  into  consideration,  I  am  compelled  to  think 
he  will  not  be  found  the  most  correct  of  writers  in  his  prose. 
Let  us  see. 

..."  been  a  grammar-school  master  at  Pontremoli,  arrived  at  Parma, 
in  order  to  pay  his  devotions  to  the  laureate.  The  poor  man  had  already 
walked  to  Naples,  guided  in  his  blindness  by  his  only  son,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  finding  Petrarch.  The  poet  had  left  that  city  ;  but  King  Robert, 
pleased  with  this  enthusiasm,  made  him  a  present  of  some  money.  The 
aged  pilgrim,  returned  to  Pontremoli,  where,  being  informed  that  Pe- 
trarch was  at  Parma,  he  crossed  the  Appenines,  in  spite  of  the  severity 
of  the  weather,  and  travelled  thither,  having  sent  before  him  a  tolerable 
copy  of  verses.  He  was  presented  to  Petrarch,  whose  hand  he  kissed 
with  devotion  and  exclamations  of  joy.  One  day,  before  many  specta- 
tors, the  blind  man  said  to  Petrarch, '  Sir,  I  have  come  far  to  see  you.' 
The  bystanders  laughed.  On  which  the  old  man  replied,  '  I  appeal  to 
you,  Petrarch,  whether  I  do  not  see  you  more  clearly  and  distinctly 
than  these  men  who  have  their  eyesight.'  Petrarch  gave  him  a  kind 
reception,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  considerable  present." 

The  fragment  is  worse  than  I  could  have  supposed  it.     It  has 


xxii  CAMPBELL, 

neither  propriety,  nor  perspicuity,  nor  precision.  If  you  will 
look  over  my  shoulder,  I  will  point  you  out  its  defects  of  style 
and  of  language.  —  In  the  first  line,  we  have,  for  master  of  a 
grammar-school,  the  phrase,  "grammar-school  master," a  mode 
of  expression  fit  only  for  conversation  or  for  hurried  compo- 
sition, and  even  there  not  elegant.  Look  at  the  first  complete 
sentence :  "  The  poor  man,"  etc.  The  poet  meant  to  say,  that, 
guided  in  his  blindness  by  his  only  son,  the  poor  man  had  already 
walked  to  Naples,  for  the  purpose  of  finding  Pdrarch.  The 
next  sentence  is :  "  The  poet  had  left,"  etc.  The  poet  is  PE- 
TRARCH, and  the  king  therefore  made  the  present  to  him! 
The  writer  meant :  The  poet  had  left  that  city  ;  but  King  Rob- 
ert, pleased  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  blind  man,  made  him,  or 
more  precisely,  made  the  latter,  a  present  of  some  money.  But 
even  yet  the  sentence  wants  precision.  Do  you  see  why  ? 

7F.  The  second  member  is,  in  reality,  totally  independent  of 
the  first. 

A.  Just  so.  Well :  "  The  aged  pilgrim,"  etc.  Though  the 
phrase,  "  a  tolerahle  copy  of  verses,"  does  not  please  me,  I 
shall  not  quarrel  with  it,  because  I  think  that  it  is  sanctioned 
by  custom.  The  sentence,  however,  is  liable  to  the  same  ob- 
jection with  the  one  before  it :  it  wants  precision.  And  fur- 
ther, these  three  sentences,  altogether,  have  no  business  where 
they  are.  They  refer  to  a  time  prior  to  that  which  is  men- 
tioned in  the  sentences  that  immediately  precede  and  follow 
them.  Consequently,  they  destroy  the  unity  of  the  passage. 

W.  But  what  would  you  have  done  with  them  ;  for  the  cir- 
cumstances they  relate  are  too  interesting  to  be  omitted  ? 

Jl.  I  would  have  endeavoured  to  introduce  them  previously. 
Failing  there,  I  should  probably  have  given  them  another  form 
and  placed  them  in  a  note.  —  But  we  have  not  yet  done  with 
the  paragraph.  "  He  was  presented  to  Petrarch,  whose  hand 
he  kissed  with  devotion  and  exclamations  of  joy,"  (and  with  ex- 
clamations of  joy.}  «  One  day,"  etc.  "  The  bystanders  laughed. 
On  which  the  old  man  replied"  (better,  said,)  "I  appeal  to 


AS   A  PROSE  WRITER.  xxiii 

you,"  etc.  Clearly  and  distinctly,  in  this  sentence,  is  a  distinc- 
tion without  a  difference.  The  poet  would  have  better  ex- 
pressed his  meaning  thus  :  "  I  appeal  to  you,  O  Petrarch, 
whether  I  do  not  see  you  more  clearly,  and  distinguish  you 
better,  than  these  men  who  have  their  eyesight."  The  con- 
cluding sentence  is  deficient  in  unity,  and  of  course  in  perspi- 
cuity. The  kind  reception,  mentioned  in  the  first  clause,  was 
evidently  previous  to  the  circumstance  recorded  in  the  two 
preceding  sentences  ;  while  the  dismissal  followed  last  of  all. 
He  might  have  said,  (though  it  is  very  difficult  to  give  clear- 
ness to  a  paragraph  so  involved ;  the  amendment  should  begin 
with  the  thoughts  of  the  author:)  Pttrarch,  who  had  given  the 
enthusiast  a  kind  reception,  dismissed  him,  etc. ;  or,  Petrarch 
had  given  the  enthusiast  a  kind  reception.  He  dismissed  him 
with  a  considerable  present. 

W.  What  a  world  of  inaccuracies,  indeed  ! 

A.  And  what  inelegance!  Now,  do  you  think  that  Mr. 
CAMPBELL  would  have  fallen  into  this  rusticity  and  puerility, 
that  he  would  have  thus  violated  grammar,  and  obscured  his 
sense,  and  given  his  sentences  the  turn  and  lightness  of  a 
school-boy's,  had  critics  done  their  duty  ? 

W,  I  believe  that  you  are  right.  Yet  CAMPBELL  may  have 
been  incapable  .  .  . 

A.  Of  what  ?  Of  seeing  these  faults?  Do  not  think  it.  He 
could  never  indeed  become  a  great  writer ;  for  it  is  not  in  him. 
Neither  is  he  a  great  poet.  But  he  is  a  polished  and  an  elegant 
poet,  and  he  certainly  could  have  applied  the  file  to  his  prose. 

W.  But  you  have  just  said,  that  the  amendment  should  be- 
gin with  the  thoughts  of  the  writer.  Might  not  the  poet  have 
been  confused  in  his  ideas,  while  writing  this  passage  ? 

A.  Very  possibly.  Indeed,  had  he  thought  clearly,  he  would 
have  expressed  himself  with  clearness.  But  do  you  not  know 
that  by  studying  exactness  and  perspicuity  in  expression,  one 
learns  to  think  with  exactness  and  without  confusion  ?  And  is 
it  to  be  supposed,  that  this  scrap  of  newspaper,  found  by  acci- 


xxiv  AMERICAN  CRITICS. 

dent  at  our  feet,  should  contain  the  only  passage  that  is  faulty 
in  the  whole  biography  ?  I  have  mentioned,  casually,  Carlyle. 
Here,  in  my  private  copy  of  the  Vision,  I  have  laid  up  some 
proofs  of  what  I  have  asserted  with  regard  to  his  admirer,  the 
New-York  Review,  (i)  Let  us  take  one.  This  is  an  excerpt 
from  a  newspaper,  reviewing  the  Review.  "  The  writings  of 
Carlyle,"  says  the  wise  man,  "have  inspired  worthily  some  en- 
thusiastic writer,  who  has  here  given  to  the  public  an  analysis 
of  the  works  and  of  the  mind  of  Carlyle,  that  will  be  felt  and 
acknowledged  for  its  power  and  its  eloquence,  by  many,  many 
minds."  Enough  for  the  newsman.  The  following,  he  says, 
"is  from  the  notice  of  CARLYLE'S  Essay  upon  Voltaire" 

"  We  open  this  essay,  and  upon  every  page  is  something  which  most, 
of  even  thinking  men,  may  well  ponder  over;  the  immortality  of  every 
act  and  thought,  —  the  small  beginnings  of  the  greatest  things,  the  in- 
finite connexions  of  every  event,  causing  the  product  which  comes  from 
'  the  loom  of  Time/  to  be  a  web,  not  a  line,  —  the  silence  of  the  deep- 
est forces,— the  more  than  conqueror's  power  of  noiseless  thought,  — 
these  and  countless  other  truths,  which,  simple  as  they  seem,  carry 
wrapped  in  them  whole  systems,  we  meet  with  every  where  in  this 
paper  on  Voltaire." 

Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  the  meaning  of  that 
passage  ? 

W.  Excuse  me.  As  the  essayist  is  said  to  be  enthusiastic,  I 
have  enough  of  your  sentiment  not  to  meddle  with  him,  how- 
ever worthily  he  may  have  been  inspired. 

A.  Very  well.  I  could  give  you  a  dozen  such  scraps  of 
nonsense,  selected  from  the  Review,  by  the  same  judicious 
hand.  Let  us  pass  to  this  extract,  furnished  also  by  the  jour- 
nalist, from  a  magazine.  "  L — gf w's  translations  from 

Jean  Paul."  German.  Very  good.  —  "  Evening  and  Death.  — 
The  day  is  dying  amid  blossom-clouds,  and  with  its  own  swan- 
song" 

(1)  It  is  proper,  in  order  to  give  its  full  weight  to  my  opinion,  that  I 
should  state,  that  the  ff.  Y.  Review  has  never  crossed  my  path  in  any  the  most 
trifling  matter.  I  do  not  so  much  as  know  a  single  one  of  its  contributors, 
even  by  sight.  —I  shall  one  day  be  able  to  show,  that  I  was  equally  unbiased 
by  any  personal  feeling,  when  I  commenced  my  attack  upon  the  newspapers. 


GERMANIZED  ENGLISH.    BRITISH  CRITICS.        XXV 

W.  Stop ;  that  is  quite  enough. 

A.  No,  no.  "  The  alleys  and  gardens  speak  in  low  tones, 
like  men  when  deeply  moved  "... 

W.  For  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  ERNEST  ! .  . . 

A.  "And  around  the  leaves  fly  the  gentle  winds,  and  around 
the  blossoms  the  bees,  with  a  tender  whisper." 

W.  Ha,  ha  !   No  more,  I  beseech  you. 

Jl.  Yes;  let  me  finish  the  paragraph.  "Only  the  larks,  like 
man,  rise  warbling  into  the  sky,  and  then,  like  him,  drop  down 
again  into  the  furrow  ;  while  the  great  soul  and  the  sea  lift 
themselves  unheard  and  unseen  to  heaven,  and  rushing,  sub- 
lime and  fruit-giving  ;  and  waterfalls  and  thunder-showers 
dash  down  into  the  valleys."  Stay,  I  must  give  you  the  be- 
ginning of  the  next  paragraph  :  it  will  raise  you  to  the  seventh 
heaven.  "  In  a  country  house  on  the  declivity  of  the  Bergstrasse, 
an  unspeakably  sweet  tone  rises  from  a  woman's  breast,  like  a 
trembling  lark" 

W.  By  the  Lord !  is  L— GF w  crazed  ? 

A.  I  know  not;  but  we  will  shut  him  up,  and  his  friend  Jean 
Paul,  with  the  guardian  spirit  of  the  journalist.  There  you 
are,  on  the  shelf  again,  with  Rubeta.  Dodo,  mes  enfants. 

W.  What  is  that  has  dropped  ? 

A.  Where  ?  O  !  Will  you  have  it  ?  It  is  a  notice  of  Mr. 
Sergeant  TALFOURD'S  very  ingenuous  and  sincere  praise  of 
Vdasco,  in  a  private  letter  to  the  author. 

W.  Thank  you  :  I  am  quite  contented  with  the  specimens 
of  Mr.  TALFOCRD'S  criticism  (on  Ella,  I  think,)  which  you 
gave  in  the  Vision. 

A.  True.  They  should  be  enough  to  satisfy  any  man  of  or- 
dinary stomach.  But,  now  I  am  at  the  shelves,  I  will  take  down 
a  volume  of  MURRAY'S  Byron,  and  open  it  at  hazard,  to  show 
you  how  other  distinguished  critics  write.  Volume  vin.,  page 
139.  Sir  EGERTON  BRYDGES  on  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.  "  In  the  first  sixteen  stanzas  there  is  yet  a  mighty  but 
groaning  burst  of  dark  and  appalling  strength."  That  will  do, 


XXVI  NEGLECT  OF  VERBAL  CRITICISM. 

I  think.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  Professor  WILSON,  and 
others,  who,  thanks  to  Mr.  MURRAY,  have  bordered  poor  By- 
ron with  their  fustian  patches.  They  are  all  of  a  piece,  eulo- 
gizing or  condemning  in  bad  and  turgid  language  the  matter 
of  the  poerns,  which  speaks  for  itself,  and  totally  neglecting  the 
manner,  on  which  a  just  criticism  would  be  of  service  to  the 
general  reader.  In  fact,  the  criticism  of  the  day  would  seem 
to  be  based  upon  the  supposition,  that  every  reader  is  a  judge 
of  language,  but  that  few  are  capable  of  appreciating  a  senti- 
ment, or  of  distinguishing  good  matter  from  bad ;  while  the 
very  reverse  is  the  fact. 

W.  But  do  you  mean  rne  to  infer  that  in  their  examination 
of  the  sentiments,  or  of  the  descriptive  passages,  or  of  the  nar- 
rative of  a  poem,  modern  critics  are  usually  correct  ? 

Jl.  Eh  !  God  forbid !  for  then  I  should  ascribe  to  them  the 
very  highest  merit  in  their  assumed  profession  ;  whereas  I  have 
called  them  false  critics  ;  which  implies,  that  even  in  the  part 
they  undertake,  they  betray  instifficience,  and  are  guilty  of 
frequent,  if  not  constant,  misrepresentation.  If  the  setting  sun 
did  not  warn  me  of  the  hour,  I  could,  in  any  volume  of  the 
work  I  took  up  last,  show  you  page  after  page  of  such  gross 
absurdities  as  would  make  you  smile,  and  would  give  you 
quite  as  much  surprise  as  amusement. 

W.  It  would  not  be  necessary  ;  for  I  have  noticed  them 
myself;  and  I  know  not  whether  with  amusement  most,  or 
indignation. 

»#.  Well  said  ;  for  falsehood  in  the  criticism  of  sentiment 
may  lead  to  serious  mischief  in  morals.  But,  passing  this  par- 
ticular topic,  there  is  one  consequence  of  the  neglect  of  verbal 
criticism,  —  a  consequence  at  once,  and  cause,  —  that  has  had 
a  most  pernicious  effect  on  the  poetry  of  the  day,  and  has  given 
rise  to  what  we  may  distinguish  as  two  schools,  the  prosaic 
and  the  florid.  Nor  is  it  one  of  the  least  singular  characteris- 
tics of  the  present  era  of  letters,  that  two  kinds  of  poetry  so 
diametrically  opposed  to  each  other  should  flourish  at  one 


ART  AND  NATURE.  xxvii 

time,  and  have  equally  ardent  supporters,  and,  what  is  more, 
supporters  who  uphold  both  sides  at  once  ! 

W.  Is  not  this  one  of  the  direct  consequences  of  the  neglect 
you  speak  of? 

A.  You  are  right.  For  the  criticism,  that  would  trample  the 
prose  of  one  class  in  its  native  dust,  would  be  exerted  equally 
in  pruning  the  scentless  and  unproductive  luxuriance,  and  in 
exscinding  the  excrescences,  of  the  poetry  of  the  other.  Here, 
therefore,  extremes,  according  to  the  vulgar  saying,  meet.  And 
first,  let  us  take  a  glance  at  the  pretensions  of  what  I  have 
called  the  prosaic  school,  which  arrogates  to  itself  alone  the 
knowledge  and  the  representation  of  nature,  and  which  depre- 
ciates every  thing  like  art,  as  unworthy  of  true  genius,  and 
inconsistent  with  true  poetry.  Let  me  ask,  then,  what  is  all 
nature  but  the  result  of  art  ?  of  art  divine  ;  for  none  of  us  will 
suppose  that  its  Author  acted  without  rule,  where  order  is  uni- 
versally to  be  perceived.  Now,  art  among  men  is  but  the  imi- 
tation of  this  nature,  whether  as  it  comes  directly  from  the 
hands  of  the  Deity,  or  as  modified  by  secondary  causes ;  and 
we  select,  as  the  object  of  imitation,  what  in  it  is  pleasing,  or 
rather,  what  is  attractive.  If  we  paint  horrors,  we  but  imitate 
them,  to  produce  that  effect  by  representation,  which  they  have 
upon  the  rnind  when  really  perceived ;  and  our  pleasure  . . . 

W.  Pleasure? 

Jl.  Yes,  pleasure  of  a  painful  kind;  our  satisfaction,  perhaps 
I  should  have  said,  arises  from  the  truth  of  the  delineation ;  for 
let  it  but  be  false,  and  we  perceive  something  ridiculous  where 
before  we  admired.  Now,  how  is  this  effect  produced  ?  We 
observe  the  lights,  and  shades,  the  shapes  and  proportions, 
and  lay  on  our  colors  after  the  prescription,  so  to  speak,  of  our 
model.  What  is  this  but  art  ?  Yet  you  say,  when  the  effect  is 
produced,  How  natural  it  is !  I  approve  of  this  artist,  or  this 
author,  because  he  is  so  natural !  Does  this  mean  that  the 
poet,  painter,  or  sculptor  acted  without  rule  ?  Quite  the  con- 
trary, I  conceive.  It  is  his  observation,  his  careful  study,  his 


Xxviii  POWERS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 

knowledge  of  the  principles  of  his  art  as  taught  by  sound  criti- 
cism^  which  criticism  is  founded  upon  the  analysis  of  the 
works  of  others,  which  works  are  the  improvements  of  con- 
secutive ages,  one  upon  another,  the  remotest  being  the  rough 
copy  of  nature  itself,  without  skill  or  judgment,  like  the  ver- 
milion ornaments  of  an  Indian  tent,  or  the  ancient  ballad  of 
Chevy-Chase.  Do  you  see  this  ? 

W.  Perfectly.  And  thus  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  show 
nature  in  Pope,  and  art  in  Shakepeare. 

Jl.  Certainly  not.  Who  that  is  competent  to  judge  of  both 
would  doubt  it  ?  Equally  easy  would  it  be  to  show  a  compar- 
ative want  of  them  in  Wordsworth.  But  we  will  pass  him, 
merely  saying  in  the  language  of  DRYDEN,  Let  him  walk  on 
foot  with  his  pad  in  his  hand,  but  let  not  those  be  considered  no 
poets,  who  mount  and  show  their  horsemanship. 

W.  "  Glorious  JOHN  !  "  (i)  Why  there  is  more  imagination 
in  one  line  of  his  prose  than  in  a  dozen  lines  of  his  defamer's 
verse. 

JJ.  True ;  and  what  is  quite  as  valuable,  more  sense.  But 
your  speaking  of  imagination  leads  me  to  notice  another  mis- 
take into  which  people  have  fallen  through  the  misguidance  of 
false  critics.  —  The  world  in  general  has  very  little  idea  of  the 
real  merit  of  a  poet  as  tested  by  the  intrinsic  difficulty  of  his 
composition,  of  the  facility  of  composition  where  the  imagina- 
tion is  excited,  and  of  the  labor  which  attends  it  in  proportion 
as  the  imagination  is  kept  subordinate  to  other  rarer  faculties, 
I  would  say,  to  judgment  and  reason.  If  it  had,  POPE  would 
readily  reascend  to  his  proper  elevation,  and  the  horde  of  rhy- 
mers that,  unlike  him,  are  content  to  always  wander  in  the 
maze  of  fancy,  would  be  very  little  estimated. 

W.  But  you  do  not  mean  to  undervalue  the  powers  of  the 
imagination  ? 

A.  Not  when  I  assign  them  their  due  place.  I  think  it  could 
be  easily  proved,  that  of  all  the  faculties  that  which  WORDS- 
WORTH claims  to  be  the  first,  and  which,  curiously  enough, 

(l)  CLAUD  HALCBO.  in  the  Pirate. 


IN  THE  COMPOSITION  OF  POETRY.  xxix 

lie  least  possesses,  is  in  reality  the  most  common.  We  find  it 
strong  in  women,  and  more  fervid  in  our  youth  than  when  the 
mind  is  matured.  However,  without  wasting  time  upon  this 
point,  if  you  practise  yourself,  endeavour  to  versify  while  rea- 
soning, try  to  make  a  philosophic  poem,  and  afterwards  give 
the  fancy  full  play,  and  you  shall  see.  The  labor  of  the  latter 
is  one  of  love,  the  former  needs  all  your  art,  all  the  stores  of  wit 
you  have  gathered  in  all  your  life,  to  keep  it  from  languishing. 
It  is  this  which  makes  the  composition  of  occasional  pieces  no 
test  of  ability ;  for  they  are  written  in  the  heat  of  fancy,  and 
words  and  rhymes  flow  readily  with  the  images;  they  come  of 
themselves  and  are  not  to  be  sought  for.  But  in  a  long  compo- 
sition, where  connection  is  to  be  studied,  characters  are  to  be 
distinguished,  and  maintained  in  their  distinctness,  where  vari- 
ety is  to  relieve  from  weariness  without  distracting  the  mind 
from  the  subject,  where,  in  short,  imagination  is  directed  by 
art,  and  is  subservient  to  reason,  here  will  you  see  of  what  stuff 
the  poet  is  indeed  made.  And  hence  your  inferior  writers,  with 
few  exceptions,  confine  themselves  to  small  effusions,  which 
are  poured  out  as  some  incident  may  tickle  the  dormant  fancy, 
and  enthusiasm  may  supply  the  inspiration  which  the  true  poet 
can  derive  from  any  subject,  be  it,  as  has  before  been  said,  a 
broomstick.  And  this  brings  me  to  what  we  agreed  to  call  the 
florid  style.  —  We  see  it  frequently  asserted,  that  such  and  such 
a  one's  prose  is  full  of  poetry,  sparkles  with  poetry,  glows  toith 
the  most  poetical  conceptions,  and  such  other  phrases ;  and  what 
kind  of  writing  do  we  usually  find  it  to  be  ?  Merely  fustian, 
some  such  stuff  as  PHILIPS'  eulogy  of  WASHINGTON,  and,  like  it, 
fit  for  the  declamation  of  school-boys.  And  this  is  another  of  the 
ideas  of  poetry  which  prevail  at  the  present  day :  it  can  be  writ- 
ten by  any  one  who  has  imagination  which  he  cultivates  at  the 
expense  of  his  reason !  that  is  to  say,  by  fifty-nine  young  women 
out  of  sixty,  of  whom  the  sixtieth  shall  be  only  half-educated. 
Is  then  the  talent  to  produce  poetry  so  common  a  gift  of  na- 
ture ?  Can  all  indeed  write  it  that  can  dash  together  stars  and 


XXX  THE  POET  IS  BORN,  NOT  MADE. 

spars,  make  dove  accord  with  love,  and  jingle  kiss  with  bliss  ? 
The  question  may  be  answered  by  another;  Can  all  make 
music  ?  can  everybody  even  sing?  As  there  are  hundreds  that 
have  the  composition,  they  have  heard  performed  by  others, 
vibrating  in  their  brains  distinctly  and  without  fault,  but  when 
they  endeavour  to  give  it  utterance  find  that  they  cannot  turn 
a  note,  so  shall  many  have  the  conception  of  what  poetry  is, 
the  feeling  of  what  poetry  is  said  to  be,  yet  shall  not  be  able 
to  construct  a  verse.  But  most  men  will  attempt  to  sing,  and 
all  men  will  write  verses.  Hence  we  have  the  many  ludicrous 
exhibitions  that  are  made  even  by  men  of  genius,  from  CICERO 
down  to  Mr.  IRVING.  —  But  you  appear  to  be  recalling  some- 
thing that  you  wish  to  utter.  I  beg  your  pardon. 

W.  By  no  means.  I  was  listening  with  any  thing  but 
impatience.  It  merely  occurred  to  me,  in  the  course  of  your 
remarks,  to  ask  you  whether  there  were  not,  beside  the  two 
kinds  of  modern  verse  which  you  have  named,  a  third  that 
might  be  placed  between  the  two  extremes  ? 

A,  And  yet  should  not  be  excellent?  Very  likely.  What 
would  you  make  it  ? 

W,  That  which  is  neither  purely  prosaic,  nor  yet  altogether 
florid  ;  neither  Wordsworth  nor  Hemans  :  a  verse  that  has 
music,  that  displays  imagination,  and  that  is  not  without  sense ; 
but  a  sense  that  instructs  not,  an  imagination  that  awakes  no 
ecstasy,  a  music  that  but  puts  to  sleep. 

.#.  Very  good.     Go  on. 

W.  Though  all  three  kinds  are  to  a  certain  extent  puerile, 
yet  this  I  should  call  the  puerile,  by  way  of  eminence. 

A.  And  you  have  described,  in  fact,  the  commonplace  ;  a 
class  of  poetry  that  is  very  prolific.  I  can  furnish  you  with  a 
specimen,  in  a  romance  of  three  cantos,  which  I  wrote  myself, 

"  In  sul  mio  primo  giovenile  errore, 
Quand'  era  in  parte  altr'  uom  da  quel  ch'  i'  sono."  (i) 

Did  you  ever  see  it  ? 

(i)  In  my  first  youthful  error,  when  in  part 

I  was  another  man  from  what  I  am.    PETK.  Son.  1. 


COMMONPLACE  POETRY.  XXxi 

W.  Surely.    1  can,  for  a  wager,  repeat  to  you  the  opening. 


A.  Aground  already. 

W.  Stop  a  minute.  , 

'T  was  sunset,  and  the  changing  sky 

With  many  a  purple  cloud  was  glowing, 

Floating  about  promiscuously 

Upon  their  sea  of  gold,  and  throwing. 

Along  the  dark  clear  wave  below, 

Their  trembling  images  of  light, 

So  soft,  yet  whimsically  bright, 

That  seem'd  the  very  glassing  tide 

To  feel,  with  somewhat  frolic  pride, 

The  beauty  that  it  gave  to  sight, 

And  glide  with  merrier  flow. 

While,  circling  o'er  its  placid  breast,  .  .  . 
There,  I  can  go  no  further. 

A.  Further!  you  have  done  wonders.  I  could  not  have 
ridden  such  a  nag,  pony  I  should  say,  so  long,  although  of  my 
own  training,  to  win  the  smiles,  —  the  smiles?  the  kiss  of 
--  ,  who  is  the  fairest  woman  in  AMERICA. 

W.  Come,  you  are  jesting;  or  you  are  exaggerating,  through 
modesty. 

Jl.  And  that  would  be  affectation,  falsehood.  Did  you  ever 
know  me  to  do  such  a  thing  ?  If  I  thought  well  of  the  piece, 
I  would  praise  it  without  scruple,  as  you  know,  or  you  ought 
to  know,  W  -  . 

W.  Pardon  me,  dear  ERNEST;  I  do  know  :  and  if  I  did  not, 
a  moment's  reflection  would  have  told  me,  that  you  would 
never  have  kept  the  manuscript  for  fourteen  years  in  your 
pigeon-holes,  if  you  had  thought  very  highly  of  it.  But  how  is 
it  possible  that  you  should  rate  so  low  what  is  surely  neither 
fustian  nor  frigidity  ? 

A.  Nor  unmusical,  but  what  is  commonplace.  There  you 
are  answered.  It  has  not  nerve  enough  for  the  pen  of  a  man, 
nothing  to  distinguish  it  from  a  mass  of  poems  that  employ  the 
paper-makers  every  year.  It  is,  as  I  said,  a  specimen  of  the 
school  you  called  the  puerile. 


xxxii  THE  AUTHOR'S  JUVENILE  POETRY. 

W.  I  deny  it. 

A.  And  I  will  prove  it.  The  poem  is  in  my  desk,  in  this 
very  room.  By  the  time  you  have  helped  yourself  to  another 
glass  of  claret,  I  shall  have  it  out  for  you,  to  your  conviction. 
But  suppose  you  throw  the  blinds  completely  back ;  for  the  sun 
is  now  down.  You  will  not  find  the  flowers  in  your  way. 

W.  Eh  !  look  there,  ERNEST.  There  are  your  verses  paint- 
ed before  you. 

?T  was  sunset,  and  the  changing  sky 
With  many  a  purple  cloud  was  glowing, 
Floating  about  promiscuously 
Upon  their  sea  of  gold,  and  throwing,  .  .  . 

A.  Ha,  ha !  you  have  no  clear  wave  below,  except  it  be  in  the 
tub  under  the  pump  there ;  and  the  clouds  you  see  are  not 
purple,  but  of  the  very  color  of  these  roses. 

W.  And  that  is  what  you  meant ;  for  you  poets,  in  all  lan- 
guages, use  purple  for  any  kind  of  red.  Come,  that  is  not  fair, 
But  undo  your  parcel,  and  lej  us  have  the  proof.  Here  is  to 
your  safe  delivery. 

A.  And  the  birth  would  overwhelm  you,  should  I  bring 

forth  all  at  one  travail.  —  Why  the  poem,  W ,  is  ten 

times  worse  than  I  have  thought  it ;  for  I  find  fustian,  —  plenty 
of  it,  and  if  not  absolute  frigidity,  yet  what  is  very  near  it,  flat- 
ness. 

W.  But  read  it,  and  let  us  see  if  after  fourteen  years  my 
memory  is  not  better  than  the  poet's.  Read,  read,  read. 

A.  What  ?  the  frigidity,  or  the  fustian  ? 

W.  No,  no  ;  what  you  think  the  best  parts. 

A.  Well  then,  here,  from  Canto  First,  is  a  bit  of  sentiment. 

The  respite  brief  flew  fast ;  't  is  fled  : 

The  farewell  still  is  to  be  said ; 

That  little  word,  which,  ere  't  is  spoken, 

Brings  such  a  world  of  things  to  mind,  — 

A  half-breath'd  charge,  a  tear-stain'd  token, 

Some  trifling  keepsake  left  behind, 

Which  calls  us  back,  when  once  we  've  started, 

Again  to  meet,  again  be  parted, 


THE  FAREWELL.    THE  RIDE.  xxxiii 

The  last  embrace  yet  ever  first, 
The  gaze  to  be  still  once  more  taken, 
The  sigh  as  if  the  heart  would  burst, 
The  lips  that  fear  to  be  forsaken, 
Are  but  so  many  tongues,  which  say, 
We  should  not,  must  not,  dare  not  stay. 
One  kiss,  one  lingering  gaze,  etc. 

Now,  what  is  there  new  in  this  ? 

W.  Nothing  perhaps  ;  but  what  is  there  bad  ? 
JL  Nothing ;  but  it  is  a  boy's  excellence.     And  now  for  de- 
scription. 

Like  the  unbidden  soothing  power 

Of  music,  heard  in  happier  hour, 

Recall'd  years  after  it  has  fled, 

And  conjuring  up  a  lovely  train 

Of  thoughts  then  stirring,  words  then  said, 

And  deeds  we  fain  would  do  again, 

Thus  thrill'd  the  earnest  notes,  yet  sweet, 

Of  him  who  kneel'd  at  JUAN'S  feet. 

Pale  was  the  face  to  his  upturn'd,  — 

So  pale,  't  would  scarce  have  living  seem'd, 

Had  not  the  eyes,  which  darkly  gleam'd 

Beneath  their  lashes  long  and  light, 

With  almost  frenzy's  brightness  burn'd. 

The  hair  too,  with  its  ringlets  bright, 

That  wanton  in  their  richness  stream'd 

Adown  those  features  finely  moulded, 

And  thickly  o'er  the  shoulders  folded, 

Gave  the  slight  form,  on  which  it  fell, 

A  wildness  inexpressible. 

And  here  is  another,  close  by  it. 

Jnet  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood, 
Whose  giant  trees,  for  ages,  rearing 
Their  weather-beaten  forms,  had  stood, 
Unalter'd  but  in  leaves,  nor  fearing 
The  changes  wrought  in  all  things  round, 
When  swept  by  Time's  sirocco  wings, 
From  nations  and  their  sceptred  kings 

E'en  to  the  lowly  ground, 
Had  JUAN  stopp'd  when  first  the  sound 
Forc'd  by  the  hoofs  of  the  Page's  steed 
Had  rush'd  on  the  ear. 

W.  There ;  I  do  not  think  you  have  so  good  an  instance  of 
onomatopreia  in  all  your  poems,  as  that : 


XXxiv  THE  CAMP  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

Forc'd  by  the  hoofs  of  the  Page's  steed 
Had  rush'd  on  the  ear. 

A.  Be  it  so  ;  but  that  is  but  a  grace  ;  and,  besides,  it  is  fairly 
balanced  by  the  deformity  of  Time's  sirocco  wings,  which,  you 
will  allow,  is  an  extravagance  worthy  of  the  best  follower  of 
Mrs.  HEMANS.  However, 

From  hindrance  freed, 
They  now  continue  their  darksome  way ; 
For  the  forest  excluded  the  light  of  day, 
Save  where  a  tint  of  purple,  trac'd 
By  evening  on  the  yellow  sky, 
Was  seen  through  the  lattice  interlac'd 
By  the  boughs  of  the  trees  which  met  on  high ; 
And  not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  round, 
Save  the  horses'  tread  on  the  harden'd  ground, 
Falling  with  measur'd  energy. 

But  see  !  a  silvery  light  is  dancing 

Amid  the  leaves  ;  and  now,  't  is  glancing 

Its  mellow  lustre  on  branch  and  bough  ; 

Now  shown  still  wider  ;  and  wider  ;  and  now 

The  forest  is  pass'd,  and  the  camp  is  seen, 

Glowing  in  sudden  and  brilliant  sheen  ; 

Sheen ;  bah ! 

For  the  moon  is  up,  and  on  every,  tent 
Her  beautiful  light  is  ungrudgingly  sent, 
Half  throwing  in  brightness,  and  half  in  shade. 
How  grand  on  their  sheeted  forms  it  play'd  ! 
So  pale,  so  cold  !  but  it  blaz'd,  where  it  fell 
On  the  polish'd  arms  of  the  sentinel. 

W.  Well,  what  fault  have  you  to  find  with  these  ? 

A.  None,  other  than  I  have  found  already  :  they  rather 
please  me.  But,  without  affectation,  they  are  still  puerile,  — 
merely  pretty, 

W.  Go  on.  If  I  remember  right,  the  first  canto  is  not  the 
best  of  the  three,  and  you  are  now  through  it. 

A.  With  your  leave,  I  will  jump  the  whole  of  the  second. 
You  will  thus  have  the  two  ends.  Here  is  some  more  pretti- 
ness. 

Thus  felt  the  bold,  as  onward  they  trod 
The  lessening  length  of  their  darksome  road. 


DEATH  IN  A  DUNGEON.  XXXV 

The  feathery-footed  Hour  flew 

With  hurricane  speed  ;  for  now  in  view 

She  caught  the  top  of  the  goal  at  last, 

Which  promis'd  her  toiling  should  soon  be  past ; 

Three  quarters  were  finish'd,  and  O,  how  fast ! 

Fast  ?   Yes,  to  the  careless  ;  but  not  to  those,  etc. 

And  again,  on  the  opposite  page. 

Slumber  her  velvet  fingers  laid 
On  the  twinkling  lids  of  Moorish  eyes, 
One  moment  with  angel  smile  survey'd 
Her  beautiful  deed,  then  upward  fled 
To  tell  her  Maker  beyond  the  skies 
His  will  of  mercy  had  been  obey'd. 
Then  came  on  tiptoe  the  fairy  Dreams, 
So  seldom  known  when  sunshine  gleams, 
And  having  hid  in  their  bosom's  fold 
The  souls  of  the  sleepers,  —  and  so  on. 

What  girl  could  not  write  like  this? 

W.  Why,  not  every  one ;  for  it  is  pretty,  as  you  yourself  al- 
low ;  and  prettiness  is  something. 

A.  True,  for  a  woman,  but  not  for  a  msin ;  and  I  am  en- 
deavouring, you  know,  to  prove  to  you  that  the  poem  is  pue- 
rile, and  commonplace,  —  otherwise,  of  the  same  class  with 
much  of  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day. 

W.  But  you  have  not  done  it  yet :  there  is  other  stuff  in 
that  canto,  —  or  I  am  growing  old.  Where  is  the  part  about 
death  ? 

JL 

To  die,  as  men  before  have  dy'd 
By  men  condemn'd,  in  darksome  cell, 
Nought  by,  in  which  life  e'er  did  dwell, 
Save  the  cold  slimy  things  that  play 
About  that  shuddering  mass  of  pride/ 
Ere  long,  for  many  a  festal  day, 
To  be  their  unresisting  prey, 
And  nothing  that  hath  life  beside ; 
To  feel  the  strength  fast  ebb  away ; 
To  have  no  human  being  near 
To  raise  the  cold,  damp,  drooping  head, 
No  fond,  regretting  friend  to  shed 
That  sweetest  balm,  a  tear; 
Nought  but  those  echoing  walls  to  hear 
d 


XXXVI    DEATH  IN  THE  WAVE.    DEATH  IN  BATTLE. 

Nature's  last,  feeble,  rattling  cry  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  to  know  when  dead 
No  tongue  shall  whisper  of  his  fame, 
But  there  his  bones  shall  whitening  lie, 
When  from  them  worms  have  banqueted, 
Unknown  e'en  by  a  human  name  : 
O  God,  't  is  horrid  thus  to  die  ! 
Such  death  indeed  is  agony. 

Or,  mid  the  depth  of  lonely  night, 
Upon  a  dark,  and  desart  sea, 
Seen  by  the  cursed  smiling  light 
Of  stars  that  mock  your  misery, 
With  nothing  but  an  oar  to  keep 
The  frame  still  buoyed  on  the  deep  ; 
Aloud  for  human  help  to  cry, 
And  know  such  help  may  never  be ; 
To  feel  the  mouth  and  throat  grow  dry 
With  passion's  fierce  intensity, 
The  fingers  gradually  lose 
What  little  strength  they  may  have  left, 
Then  suddenly,  of  all  bereft 
In  one,  wild,  desperate  grasp,  refuse 
Their  stiffen'd,  horridly  firm  hold  ; 
And  then,  to  feel  the  glad  sea  fold 
Its  cold  pall  over  you  ;  to  hear 
The  bubbling  wave  as  down  you  sink, 
The  last  of  sounds  your  ear  shall  drink  ; 
To  feel  poor  Nature  struggling  yet, 
Struggling  for  air  she  cannot  get, — 
The  pang,  the  gasp,  when  death  is  met,  — 
Horrid,  to  fancy  life  thus  quit ! 
Lone  deaths  like  these  the  bravest  even  fear. 

But,  mid  the  battle's  madd'ning  strife, 
With  thousands  round  to  see  us  die, 
To  hear  with  echoing  swell  on  high, 
As  drops  the  last  sand  of  our  life, 
The  shouts  which  tell  of  victory, 
That  victory  we  fondly  feel 
Is  owing  to  our  own  brave  deed  ; 
To  have  brave  men  around  us  kneel 
With  look  of  pale  anxiety, 
And  moist'ning  eye  to  see  us  bleed ; 
To  know  when  pulse  no  more  may  beat 
That  fame  shall  blossom  o'er  our  graves, 
That  many  a  comrade's  faltering  breath 
Shall  sigh  remembrance  of  our  worth  ; 


BATTLE.    THE  NIGHT  MARCH.  XXXvit 

Who  would  not  rather  die  such  death 

Than  linger  on;  amid  the  dearth 

Of  every  generous  sense,  replete 

With  all  our  meaner  nature  craves  ? 

To  die  such  death  is  surely  sweet  j 

The  moment  when  our  glory  shows 

In  brightest  colors,  as  the  Sun, 

Most  beauteous  when  his  course  is  done, 

At  parting  o'er  the  horizon  throws 

The  richest,  loveliest  of  his  hues. 
W.  What  say  you  to  that  ? 
A.  One  swallow  does  not  make  a  spring. 
W-  No,  but  I  think  I  see  the  tip  of  the  wings  of  one  or  two 
more. 

A.  You  must  let  the  nest  then  fly,  yourself. 

W.  With  all  my  heart.     Give  me  the  manuscript. 

?T  is  glorious,  when  the  loud  drums  rattle, 

When  trumpets  echo  trumpets'  bray, 

When  champing  steeds  impatient  neigh, 

When  air-woo'd  banners  gaily  stream, 

And  arms  flash  back  the  sun's  fierce  gleam, 

To  deck  us  for  the  feast  of  battle. 

Then  boils  the  maddening  pulse,  beats  high 

The  pulse  in  frenzy's  ecstasy. 

A.  Frenzy's  ecstasy!    Hum  !  rather  extravagant  for  the  oc- 
casion. 

W.  Tais-toL 

We  join.     Whose  thought  is  then  upon  life, 
As  he  presses  forward  on  dead  and  dying, 
Nor  cares  for  the  friends  beneath  him  lying, 
Glutted  and  drunk  with  the  fury  of  strife  ? 
Who  at  such  moment  e'er  pauses  to  think, 
Till  limbs  exhausted  beneath  him  sink, 
Or  rampart  is  taken,  or  foeman  shrink, 
Till  victors  are  weary'd,  and  vanquish'd  fly, 
And  the  shout  of  the  battle  gives  place  to  the  cry 
Of  the  wounded  wretches,  that  pray  but  to  die  ? 
It  is  only  then,  yes,  only  then, 
That  Reason  flits  back  to  her  nest  again. 

But  when  no  rivalling  trumpets  bray, 
No  loud  drums  rattle,  no  banners  play, 
Nor  armor  glistens,  nor  war-steeds  neigh, 


XXXviii  THE  CONFLAGRATION. 

When  silent  the  shouting,  and  soft  is  the  tread, 

And  the  few  words  needed  are  whispered, 

When  we  scarce  may  distinguish  the  face  of  friend 

By  the  sickly  light  on  our  pathway  shed, 

As  slily  in  darkling  route  we  wend, 

Gazing  for  sign,  and  list'ning  for  sound 

Of  foeman's  foot  on  the  treacherous  ground, 

As  the  tiger  skulks  till  his  prey  be  found,  — 

Then  the  heart  indeed  throbs,  and  the  pulse  runs  high, 

But  not  with  a  similar  ecstasy ; 

And  the  breath,  and  so  on. 

A.  There  ;  are  you  contented  ? 

W.  Not  yet.  There  is  the  fire,  which  you  know  must  par- 
ticularly please  a  citizen  of  NEW  YORK. 

But,  with  that  quick  yet  active  glance 

Which  fear  may  oft  alone  supply, 

He  saw,  —  he  turn'd  him  from  such  sight,  — 

The  outer  tents  one  mass  of  light 
Far  flashing  to  the  sky ; 

And  by  the  blaze,  so  fiercely  bright,  — 

Save  where,  as  fast  the  flames  advance, 

The  smouldering  ruin,  closely  pent, 

With  sullen  roaring  suddenly  broke, 
Hurling  up  cinders  and  reddening  smoke, 
From  the  shrinking  walls  of  receding  tent,  — 
He  saw  some  desperate  wretches  stand, 
Half-naked,  against  their  armed  foes, 
Others,  not  even  with  weapon  in  hand, 
Struggling  madly  'midst  merciless  blows  ; 
He  saw  the  sever'd  fingers  unclose 
Their  bloody  grasp  from  the  foeman's  brand, 
While  loudly  their  dying  yells  arose, 
Mix'd  with  the  groaning  of  those  who  writhe 
Mid  the  torturing  flames  into  which  they  are  sent, 
As  they  fall  like  grass  by  the  mower's  scythe. 
They  seem'd  most  like  a  demoniac  band 
Rioting  in  their  own  element. 

Now,  after  the  fire. 

A.  By  the  Lord,  no  !  Put  your  engine  up.  —  Now,  are  you 
convinced  ? 

W.  Of  what? 

A.  Of  what  I  told  you  ;  that  T  myself,  "in  my  youth's  sum- 
mer," had  written  in  the  commonplace  style  ? 


THE  POETRY  OF   A   MAN.  xxxix 

W.  Hardly,  by  what  has  been  read. 

Jl.  But  they  were  positively  the  best  parts.  You  would  have 
it  so.  Contrast  them  with  any  passage  of  the  romance  I  wrote 
the  third  year  afterward  ;  what  a  difference  ! 

/r.  Do  you  mean  the  composition  you  endeavoured  to  have 
published  in  LONDON  ? 

A.  Yes.  To  show  what  I  call,  even  of  my  own  writing, 
verses  that  befit  a  man,  I  must  be  indulged  with  reading  you 
some  stanzas. 

/r.  You  will  delight  me ;  it  is  ten  years  since  I  saw  the 
poem,  and  I  do  not  recollect  it  near  so  well  as  the  other. 

A.  Let  us  take  the  first  stanzas.  You  will  find  something 
different  from  the  trivial  picture  that  opens  the  other. 

Not  to  the  crowd,  (that  animated  clay! 
Whose  span  of  life  is  measur'd  but  by  time.) 
Which,  plodding  onward  in  one  beaten  way, 
Deems  musing  folly,  and  romance  a  crime  ; 
Not  to  the  cold,  whose  wishes  never  climb. 
Chain'd  to  the  limits  of  their  little  sphere, — 
Who,  mean  in  boyhood,  crafty  in  their  prime. 
Measure  their  man  by  what  he  makes  a  year ; 
O  not  to  these  I  sing !  their  wisdom  speaks  not  here. 

Nor  yet  to  those,  who,  rear'd  with  careful  hand, 
Watch'd  while  they  woke,  and  cradled  in  repose, 
Their  infant  virtues  foster'd  to  expand, 
And  vices  check'd  the  moment  they  arose, 
Proud  of  their  strength,  proclaim  themselves  stern  foes 
To  all  whose  hearts  seem  less  devoutly  given, 
Careless  what  waves  the  drowning  wretch  oppose, 
By  what  doubts  toss'd,  what  circumstances  driven  ;  — 
7am  a  man  of  sin,  no  spotless  child  of  Heaven  ! 

No,  not  to  these.     But 't  is  to  thee  I  sing, 

Lov'd  of  my  youth  !  companion  of  my  age  ! 

What  though  no  crimes  their  blighting  shadows  fling 

Across  thy  brow,  no  storms  of  passion  rage, 

Nor  cares,  ally'd  with  disappointment,  wage 

Their  slow  but  fatal  battle,  in  thy  heart, 

Yet  thou,  alas,  art  in  life's  early  stage, 

And  soon  must  youth's  romantic  visions  part, 

Like  mists,  before  thine  eyes, 1  once  was  what  thou  art. 

d* 


xl  THE  POETRY  OF   A  MAN. 

Scarce  twenty  summers  yet  for  thee  have  smil'd, 
Thee,  whom,  a  babe,  I  dandled  on  this  knee  ; 
And  who,  to  look  upon  thy  light  step  wild, 
Thy  cheek's  soft  bloom,  and  smile  of  sunny  glee, 
Would  deem  the  eye  one  spot  within  might  see, 
Dark  seed  of  future  ill !     Say,  is  unknown 
All  anguish  to  thy  breast  ?  does  Sorrow  flee 
The  sunshine  of  thy  soul,  and  thine  alone  ?     . 
Then  listen  to  my  tale,  and  make  its  scenes  thine  own. 

O,  ever  is  their  envied  lot  unblest, 
Unblest  though  envy'd,  (such  may  soon  be  thine.) 
Whom  partial  Genius  singles  from  the  rest, 
To  pine  while  pleasing,  shiver  while  they  shine  ! 
Though  not  its  state,  its  misery  has  been  mine  ;  — 
To  have  my  actions  watch'd  by  prying  eyes, 
My  thoughts  all  wrong'd,  to  brook  the  taunt  malign, 
The  shrug,  the  start,  the  sneer  that  never  dies, 
Deep  rankling  in  the  soul,  from  creatures  I  despise. 

I  tell  thee  (mark  me  !)  not  the  loathliest  ills, 
That  in  this  prison-house  of  life  I  've  borne, 
E'er  wrought  such  pain,  no  venom'd  drop  distils 
From  Memory's  fount,  where  man  but  drinks  to  mourn, 
So  fell  to  peace,  as  one  curse,  which  has  worn, 
And  wears  e'en  now,  my  blighted  heart  around  : 
GOD  keep  thee  from  its  fang !  thy  spirit  torn 
No  more  shall  fly,  —  Time  cannot  heal  such  wound,  — 
But  drag  its  useless  wings,  low  fluttering  on  the  ground. 

Such  is  the  curse  of  misconstruction  !  such 
The  pangs  in  life  obscure  its  stroke  may  bring. 
Yet  feel  the  proud  its  bitterness  as  much  :  — 
See  on  the  bard  yon  bastard  critic  fling 
His  venom'd  rheum  !  lo,  where  he  thrusts  his  sting, 
Pointed  with  ignorance,  and  dipp'd  in  spleen  !  — 
Ah  me,  my  muse  !  turn  back  thy  wandering  wing, 
Nor  crow-like  hover  o'er  a  prey  so  mean, 
My  tale  yet  unbegun,  unpictur'd  yet  one  scene. 

There,  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  these  stanzas,  no  one  can 
call  them  commonplace. 

W.  Nor  arn  I  sure  they  would  the  other  verses.  You  are 
too  hard  upon  them. 

A.  On  my  own  offspring  ?    That  would  be  indeed  a  mira- 


DANGER  OF  OPPOSING  POPULAR  TASTE.  xli 

cle.  No,  I  insist  upon  it,  that  if  a  few  faults  should  not  con- 
demn a  poem,  neither  may  a  few  excellencies  reprieve  it.  The 
Romance,  I  still  say,  is  puerile.  The  very  length,  to  which 
even  its  best  passages  are  spun  out,  should  convince  you  of 
that.  But  I  say  likewise,  to  bring  us  back  to  our  subject,  that 
it  is  in  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  would  suit  it. 

W.  Perhaps  better  than  your  later  poems. 

A.  It  shall  never  come  out,  for  all  that.  The  necessity  of 
shaving  every  morning  would  else  be  a  constant  reproach  to 
me. 

W.  How  so  ? 

A.  Dunce  !  By  reminding  me  of  my  manhood.  What  do 
you  suppose  the  hair  grows  on  a  man's  cheek  for,  except  to 
warn  him  to  cast  away  childish  things  ?  Why,  one  such  epi- 
gram as  that  on  W — BB(I)  is  worth  fifty  such  poems.  They 

would,  no  doubt,  do  credit  to ,  make  the  fortune 

of ,  immortalize ,  and  throw  into  a 

life-long  ecstasy ;  but  for  a  poet  not  emas- 
culated they  are  poor  stuff,  the  commonplaces,  and  the  lullaby 
melody  of  a  puerile  or  feminine  fancy,  and  of  a  muse  yet  prac- 
tising her  gamut.  But  you  shake  the  head. 

W.  I  should  not,  if  it  were  only  to  me  that  you  talked  in 
this  fashion  ;  for  with  me  it  cannot  harm  you.  But  it  is  just  so 
you  discourse  to  the  public ;  and  you  may  depend  upon  it, 
ERNEST,  that  the  way  to  win  their  favor  is  not  to  ridicule  their 

(1)  The  present  occasion  is  as  good  as  any  olher  to  mention,  that  the  substi- 
tution of  dashes  and  isolated  letters  for  certain  names  in  this  volume  is  entirely 
owing  to  the  publishers.  On  my  reading  to  them  the  epigram  above  men- 
tioned, they  remonstrated  earnestly  upon  the  insertion  of  the  full  style  of  the 
subject  it  handles,  and  finally,  though  they  had  already  accepted  the  work,  de- 
clined positively  its  publication,  unless  the  objectionable  appellation  should  be 
put  into  a  state  more  in  keeping  with  its  owner's  understanding.  Of  course, 
I  thereupon  declared  that  the  names  of  editors  of  less  prominent  "  combative- 
lieas  "  should  undergo  a  similar  eviration  ;  and  eventually  I  extended  the  ex- 
cision to  the  nomina,  praMomina,  and  cognomina,  of  every  other  person  ac- 
tually resident  in  this  country.  The  reader  will  think  of  this  mutilation  what 
he  pleases  :  it  is  a  nicety,  which,  however  I  have  been  the  operator,  I  do  not 
understand. 


xlii  MOLIERE'S  MISANTHROPE. 

tastes.  Do  you  remember  what  is  said  to  have  befallen  the 
Misanthrope  of  MOLIERE,  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  French 
comedy  ?  You  have  on  your  shelves  a  copy  of  that  poet. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  take  it  down  ? 

A.  Certainly.     That  is  BRET'S  edition. 

W.  The  very  one  I  want.  And  here  is  the  passage.  "  La 
tradition  nous  apprend,"  . .  .  But  you  must  let  me  translate  it 
to  you ;  for  I  have  no  desire  that  you  should  mark  my  accent. 
Moreover,  says  M.  BRET,  tradition  teaches  us  that  the  Sonnet  of 
ORONTES,  written  in  the  style  of  the  pdly  verses  which  at  that 
time  were  making  reputations  for  the  J\Iinages,  the  Cotins,  the 
Montreiiils,  $fc.,  fyc.,  £>c.,  had  unluckily  pleased  the  pit,  and  that 
the  shame  of  having  lestowed  its  approbation  on  such  follies,  in- 
disposed it  against  the  work  of  MOLIERE.  There  is  your  les- 
son. You  may  count,  for  your  certain  enemies,  all  the  ad- 
mirers of ,  and  of ,  of , 

and  of ;  and  they  will  be  nine  out  of  ten  of 

your  readers. 

A,  But  this  ill-judged  fashion,  to  which  they  have  enslaved 
themselves,  cannot  last  for  ever. 

"  Che  la  fortuna  che  tanto  s'aspetta 
Le  poppe  volgera  u'  son  le  prore, 
SI  che  la  classe  correra  diretta ; 

E  vero  frutto  verra  dopo  '1  fiore."  (i) 

W.  Yes,  and  in  the  mean  time  you  remain  — with  Dante  to 
console  you.  What  has  been  the  result  of  the  publication  of 
the  Vision  ? 

A.  Well  questioned.  You  hare  asked  the  publishers  for 
their  account  of  it,  and  those  "  worthy  men  "  (as  a  bird  of  their 
feather  called  them,)  have  never  deigned  to  answer  you  (a): 

(I)      For  Fortune,  in  her  galley,  long  expected, 

The  poop  will  turn  where  now  the  prow  is  leading, 
So  that  the  fleet  will  run  the  course  directed  ; 
And  a  true  fruit  the  flower  will  be  succeeding. 

DANTE.    Par.  xxvii.,  at  the  close. 

(2)  It  is  with  a  sense  of  degradation,  that  I  make  this  complaint  public  ;  but 
I  threatened  my  dishonest  publishers  to  expose  them  ;  and  I  keep  my  promises 
to  pay  of  whatever  sort. 


TASSONI'S  FIG.    THE  AMEND.  xliii 

you  do  well  to  call  for  mine,  which  no  one  should  know  better 
than  yourself.  Result  ?  For  all  the  advantage  I  have  received 

from  my  poem,  my  dear  W ,  I  might  prefix  my  picture 

to  it,  with  a  fig  in  my  hand,  like  the  author  of  the  Rape  of  the 
Bucket,  (i) 

W.  Yet  you  will  continue  it  ? 

A.  Certainly.  Have  you  known  me  so  long,  and  do  you 
ask  ?  What  have  I  to  repent  of,  I,  in  a  poem  where  there  is 
but  one  place  in  which  I  can  accuse  myself  of  having  said  too 
much? 

W.  And  which  is  that? 

A.  Where  I  have  spoken  of  the  Rector  of  St. .    A 

mere  defect  of  pronunciation,  however  displeasing,  and  how- 
ever justly  censurable  in  a  pulpit  orator,  should  not  have  been 
noticed  so  publicly,  and  with  such  contemptuous  sarcasm. 
This  one  particular  has  been  to  me  a  cause  of  frequent  self- 
reproach.  Yet  even  here,  though  I  have  sinned  against  pro- 
priety, I  have  not  offended  justice.  How  many  satirists  can 
boast  as  much  ?  What  then  should  make  me  desist  ?  Not 
the  clamor  of  my  enemies  ? 

W.  No,  but  the  neglect  of  your  friends ;  I  mean  of  the  pub- 
lic at  large. 

A.  You  say  well ;  for  friends  I  have  few,  or  none.  And  of 
the  public  at  large,  that  is,  of  the  reading  public,  can  you  say 
how  many  of  them  are  not  inimical  ? 

"  Cum  sibi  quisque  timet,  quanquam  est  intactus,  et  odit."  (2) 
No,  neither  neglect  nor  clamor  can  make  me  drop  my  pur- 
pose ;  though  the  first  has  been  able  to  suspend  it,  as  is  seen 
in  the  fragment  appended  to  my  new  essay  in  rhymes. 

(1)  In  the  Modenese  edition  of  1744,  a  copy  of  which  I  have  the  good  fortune 
to  possess,  there  is  a  portrait  of  TASSONI,  fronting  his  Life  by  MURATOBI. 
The  poet  holds  a  fig  in  his  right  hand  ;  and  an  inscription  under  the  medallion 
tells  us,  with  a  melancholy  facetiousness.  that  it  was  the  reward  of  a  long 
labor  :  "  Dextera  cur  ficum,  quseiis,  mea  gestet  inanem  ?  Longi  operis  merces 
hsec  fuit.  Aula  dedit." 

(•.>;  Since  for  himself  each  one  fears,  though  untouch'd  by  the  lash,  and  detests 
you. 

HOR.  Serm.  ii.  S.  23. 


xliv  THE  PRESENT  VOLUME. 

W.  And  was  it  there  appended  for  that  purpose  ? 

A.  Yes  ;  and  to  show  that  the  Vision  was  not  a  mere  lam- 
poon, as  falsely  represented,  but  what  it  was  advertised  to  be, 
a  regular  mock-heroic  poem,  having  a  prescribed  plot,  and 
proceeding,  by  regular  steps,  to  a  prescribed  conclusion.  After 
the  publication  of  Arthur  Carryl,  I  shall  continue  the  satire, 
and  the  Fifth  Canto,  when  completed,  shall  publish  with  my 
name,  and  thus  assume,  in  my  proper  person,  a  responsibility 
which  I  had  hoped  that  better  success  would  have  enabled  me 
to  take  at  once. 

W,  But,  excuse  me,  ERNEST,  why  should  you  prefer  to  run 
tilt  against  the  public,  when,  without  truckling  in  the  least,  you 
could  abandon  satire  for  awhile,  and  appeal  to  its  favor  in  some 
gentler  way. 

A.  Because, 

"  W  uscir  di  giorno,  e  sol  per  forza  d'  arme  ; 
Che  per  ogni  altro  modo  obbrobrio  parme."  (i) 

Besides,  have  I  not  appealed  as  you  say  ?  What  are  the  rhymes 
I  am  about  to  issue  but  such  an  appeal  ?  But,  by  the  by,  you 
have  not  yet  told  me :  what  do  you  think  of  them  ? 

W.  It  is  a  hard  question  to  answer,  and,  I  think,  an  unfair 
one  to  put.  If  I  praise  them  you  will  think  I  flatter ;  and  to 
censure  them,  supposing  I  were  prepared  to  do  so,  would  be 
rude. 

JL.  But  do  you  think  they  will  be  successful  ? 

W.  That,  though  not  so  nice  a  question,  is  nearly  as  diffi- 
cult. If  variety  will  give  them  reputation,  yes.  But .  . . 

A.  Well ;  out  with  it :  I  am  no  Archbishop  of  Grenada,  as 
you  know. 

W .  O,  neither  am  I  Gil  Bias.  I  am  not  going  to  find  fault 
with  your  Eminence's  compositions,  as  falling  off  from  previ- 
ous efforts ;  I  see  no  touch  of  apoplexy.  In  plain  words,  you 

(1)    By  my  own  strength,  and  in  the  light  of  day, 
I  would  succeed,  nor  take  a  meaner  way. 

Orl.  Fur.  xx.  77. 


EPISTLE    TO   SATAN.  xlv 

have  told,  in  part  of  them,  such  unpleasant  truths,  —  in  that 
Epistle  to  Satan,  for  instance  . .  . 

A. 

"  Poich6  la  carita.  del  natio  loco 
Mi  strinse."  (i) 

W.  Very  fine.  But  did  you  ever  know  affection  to  afford  a 
sufficient  plea  for  frankness,  —  with  anybody  ?  Well  then, 
how  do  you  suppose  it  will  answer  any  better  with  a  commu- 
nity of  persons? 

A.  But  what  if  I  am  willing  to  abide  the  consequences  ? 

W.  I  have  nothing  further  to  say.  Contra  audentior.  'T  is 
the  motto  on  your  seal. 

A,  But  was  first  engraven  on  my  heart,  I  thank  Heaven  and 
the  conjunction  of  my  parents.  Yes,  contra  audentior  (v).  "The 
gods  forbid,"  said  SOCRATES,  "that  I  should  be  silent,  when 
my  fellow-citizens  prove  so  clearly  how  much  they  still  need 
that  I  should  speak." 

W.  Ha,  ha  !  if  you  be  turning  sage  already,  without  a 
wrinkle,  I  have  done.  And  Socrates  too  !  with  roses  on  your 
table,  and  your  feet  in  velvet  slippers !  Look  on  that  standish  : 
a  little  bronze  Cupid,  holding  an  inkstand  in  one  hand,  and 
pointing  with  the  other  over  his  shoulder,  to  a  quiver  filled 
with  —  pens!  Had  pens  and  inkstands  been  in  fashion  in  old 
ATHENS,  would  SOCRATES  have  used  such  an  implement  ? 
Bah !  you  only  want  a  gray  beard,  or  a  bald  pate,  like  the 
JKbk  CHAULIEU  (s),  and  you  would  make  a  better  Anacreon. 
Socrates !  One  will  hear  next  of  his  grandmother's  turning 
Sappho ! 

(1)    For  that  affection  for  my  native  place 
Constrain'd  me. 

DANT.    Inf.  xiv.  1. 

(2)  Part  of  a  passage  in  the  sixth  JEneid  : 

"  Tu  ne  cede  malis ;  sed  contra  audentior  ito 
Quam  tua  te  fortuna  sinet." 
Yield  not  to  evils  thou ;  but  strive  to  breast  them, 
Even  in  the  face  of  Fortune. 

(3)  A  poet,  and  contemporary  of  VOLTAIRE'S,  called,  by  an  equivocal  pane- 
gyric, the  Anacreon  of  the  Temple. 


xlvi  ARTHUR   CARRYL. 

A.  Ah !  mauvais  plaisant  que  tu  es  !  I  '11  brain  thee  with 
this  pineapple. 

W.  Thank  you,  that  would  not  be  so  pleasant  as  a  lady's 
fan  ;  and  my  pineal  gland  has  no  occasion  of  being  reminded 
of  its  godparent. 

A.  O,  the  devil !  If  you  take  to  quibbling,  I  am  vanquished ; 
for  I  can  punish  you  for  one  bad  pun  only  by  giving  you  a 
worse  one  ;  and  that  I  fear  would  set  you  to  repining.  There ! 
let  that  choke  you :  or,  wash  it  down  with  this  remaining  glass 
of  claret.  But,  pitching  my  Epistle  to  —  its  destination,  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  rny  Novel. 

W.  Of  Arthur1}     Hum! 

A.  What,  not  like  it  ? 

W.  I  did  not  say  that.  Why,  there  too,  you  must  be  strew- 
ing, every  now  and  then,  your  satire,  though  indeed  more  spar- 
ingly. That  poor  nightingale  of  Arcadia,  your  "  ass  of  asses," 
you  must  give  him  more  than  one  sly  blow  in  passing. 

A.  Where  's  the  harm  ?  his  back  will  bear  my  packstaff. 
Do  you  think  he  will  get  nearer  the  crown  of  the  highway  for 
all  that? 

W.  No;  for  "  though  thou  shouldst  bray  a  fool  in  a  mortar, 
yet  will  not  his  foolishness  depart  from  him ; "  or,  what  is  more 
to  the  point,  A  laver  la  tele  d'un  une  on  y  perd  sa  lessive  (i). 
But  are  you  not  afraid  that  people  will  think  you  have  an  ac- 
tual fit  of  the  Stone  ? 

A.  Not  at  all ;  for  it  is  very  easy  to  distinguish  between  the 
pleasantry  of  easy  contempt  and  the  execration  forced  by  suf- 
fering ;  and  there  is  no  one  of  common  judgment  who  will  not 
perceive  that  it  is  my  own  amusement  that  calls  forth  my  sar- 
casms, and  not  the  twinges  of  any  particular  disorder.  Stone! 
I  am  afraid  you  are  gravel-blind  that  you  cannot  see  the  dif- 
ference. 

W.  Allowing  this,  you  will  suffer  the  imputation  of  malice  ; 
for,  though  spprt  to  you,  your  sarcasms  are  death  to  the  hearts 


0)  French  proverb.    To  wash  the  head  of  an  ass  is  to  lose  one'* 


lye. 


REVENGE  NOT  ALWAYS  MALICE.  xlvii 

of  your  victims.  The  world,  ERNEST,  will  say  you  are  re- 
vengeful. 

A.  Let  them.  They  will  one  day  find  the  contrary.  Did 
the  world  ever  do  justice  to  a  living  man's  character.  But  for 

you,  W ,  you  who  know  what  I  have  endured,  and  what 

I  do  endure  at  this  moment,  without  complaining,  though  I 
need  but  raise  my  hand  to  crush  at  a  single  blow  my  ungrate- 
ful and  most  treacherous  assailant,  for  you,  my  friend,  to  be- 
lieve me  revengeful !  . .  . 

W.  I  do  not,  I  do  not,  ERNEST.  I  spoke  but  to  warn  you 
of  what  the  world,  —  the  world,  for  whose  good  opinion  you 
are  toiling,  —  what  it  would  think. 

A.  And  I  say  again ;  let  it.  You  know  the  circumstances 
which  made  and  make  me  notice  what  at  any  other  time  I 
should  despise.  In  a  man  of  established  reputation,  to  pay 
regard  to  ignorant  censure  or  to  mendacious  malice,  would  be 
mere  frenzy,  or  the  spleen  of  a  woman  ;  but  I  am  and  have 
been  differently  situated,  as  the  world  will  one  day  know  as 
surely  as  yourself,  and  for  me  to  disregard  it,  or  to  wait  till  it 
evaporated,  would  be  cowardice. 

"  E  saria  la  matura  tarditate, 
Che  in  altri  6  providenza,  in  noi  viltate."(i) 

But  come,  let  alone  BALAAM'S  teacher,  and  his  congeners. 
What  say  you  to  my  verse  ? 

W.  I  have  noticed  a  peculiarity  in  certain  of  the  rhymes. 

A.  What?  why,  I  pique  myself  upon  precision  there!  Any 
thing  but  that,  and  I  '11  forgive  you. 

W.  But  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  wrong  in  the  peculiarity  ; 
which  is  this.  It  is  the  custom  of  all  other  poets,  that  rhyme  in 
English,  to  make  such  words  as  end  in  a  unaccented  accord 
with  gray,  way,  play,  and  the  like ;  but  you,  by  a  bold  innova- 
tion, make  a  rhyme  with  er,  as  in  the  following  examples, 
which  I  can  recall : 

(')    And  the  deliberation,  which  would  be 

In  others  foresight,  were  foul  shame  in  me. 

TASSO.     G.  L.  v.  6. 
e 


xlviii  DOUBLE  RHYMES. 

"Hence  travell'd  swains  would  whisper,  gazing  on  her, 

In  graphic  rapture, '  Cristo !  a  Marfonwa  / '  " 
"  He  was  a  chevalier,  hatch'd  in  Colonna, 

And  wore  the  riband  of  the  cross  of  honor." 

And  where  you  use  the  Italian  word  principessa,  in  the  same 
canto ; 

"Such  lot  BIANCA  found.    Heaven  seem'd  to  bless  her, 
That  serv'd  an  angel  like  the  principessa." 

So  in  that  madrigal,  which  is  such  a  favorite  of  mine : 

" '  Come,  little  image  of  Caiista  ! ' 

And,  leaning  o'er  the  babe,  I  kiss'd  her." 

A.  And  who  is  right  ?  With  which  sound  has  the  final  er, 
when  short  and  unaccented,  most  affinity ;  with  long  and  ac- 
cented a  ;  or  with  er,  with  or  (sounded  as  ur),  and  the  like  ? 
Madonna,  for  example,  cannot,  without  the  grossest  impropri- 
ety be  sounded  Madonnay,  still  less  Madonnay  ;  its  sound,  in 
English,  is  almost  perfectly  that  which  I  make  it.  Why,  the 
very  placards  which  you  noticed  in  the  street,  sometime  ago, 
might  tell  you  that.  You  there  saw  announced  the  opera  of 
Norma  burlesqued  with  the  title  of  Mrs.  Normer,  and  La  Gaz- 
za  Ladra  converted  into  Cat 's  in  the  Larder.  How  was  this 
buffoonery  managed,  if  the  English  pronunciation  of  words 
ending  in  a  unaccented,  whether  vernacular  or  foreign,  did 
not  assimilate  the  sounds  ? 

W.  True.  I  remember,  also,  seeing  on  the  railings  of  the 
Park  in  Broadway,  about  the  same  time,  a  long  board  where- 
on the  proprietor  of  a  cosmorama  had  announced  his  show 
with  its  name  spelled  cosmoramer.  But  are  not  these  vulgar 
sounds? 

«#.  Ask  yourself.  Pronounce  cosmorama,  if  you  can,  cor- 
rectly, without  giving  such  a  sound  to  the  final  a,  that  it  would 
require  good  ears  for  a  foreigner  to  distinguish  it  from  er.  You 
certainly  would  not  sound  it  as  a  final  in  papa,  nor  as  a  in 
huzza.  Why,  your  very  language,  my  dear  W ,  in  stat- 
ing the  question,  is  proof  against  you  ;  for  how  can  "  a  unac- 
cented," rhyme  with  a  accented,  idea  with  "gray,  way,  play"? 


DOUBLE  RHYMES.  xlix 

W.  I  believe  that  you  are  right.  But  you  have  all  the  world 
of  versifiers  against  you. 

A.  That  will  not  make  me  less  right.  I  remember  too  that 
the  rhyme  of  Rubeta  with  Peter  you  demurred  at.  You  said, 
the  r  in  Peter  was  heard ;  and  I  answered,  do  you  recollect 
what  ? 

W.  That  it  certainly  was,  but  very  slightly ;  without  the 
roughness  which  is  heard  in  r  initial,  as  in  rose,  or  in  r  mediate, 
as  in  arrow ;  and  that  the  a  in  Rubeta  would  receive  in  Eng- 
lish pronunciation  a  corresponding  sound  of  r,  as  though  it 
were  spelled  Rubeter. 

A.  Just.  And  I  might  have  told  you,  that  though  misled  by 
fashion  you  criticized  that  rhyme,  you  would  never  have  hesi- 
tated to  accord  Peter  with  beat  her,  or  neater  with  treat  her ; 
yet  there  an  aspirate  would  intervene.  Now  I  have,  in  Arthur 
Carryl,  used,  for  the  sake  of  the  innovation,  the  rhymes  whose 
novelty  surprised  you.  Colonnn,  for  example,  was  sought  out 
to  rhyme  with  honor,  not  honor  found  for  Colonna.  But  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  you  should  find  such  a  barbarism  in  Eng- 
lish verse,  as  this  supposed  accord  of  the  short  a  final  with 
gray,  and  the  like,  when  there  is  scarcely  a  poet  that  makes 
any  of  his  double  rhymes  more  accurate.  The  whole  object 
seems  to  be  to  rhyme  in  the  penultirna,  which  is  the  accented 
syllable  ;  and  the  other  is  made  to  be  of  no  consequence.  I 
could  give  you  a  volume  of  example?,  but  let  us  take  some  few 
at  random.  Here  is  Byron.  In  Beppo,  we  have  jealous  rhym- 
ing with  Othello's  and  fellows :  and,  what  is  particularly  in 
point,  polacca  rhyming  with  tobacco,  (tobacco  being  always 
pronounced  tobacker  by  the  vulgar.)  Then,  in  Don  Juan,  we 
have  children  rhyming  with  bewildering,  new  one  with  Juan, 
problem  with  ennoble  'em,  nothing  with  doting  and  both  in. 
But  to  multiply  more  instances  from  the  vagabond,  but  he"althy 
and  vigorous,  and  witty  muse  of  BYROX  would  be  superfluous. 
Let  us  turn  to  Swift.  Here,  in  two  successive  couplets,  are 
picking  with  chicken,  and  tell  us  with  fellows ;  here,  bubbling 


1  INEXACTNESS  OF  RHYME 

with  Dublin.  But  what  will  you  say  to  this  instance  from  a 
living  poet,  no  less  than  gentle  Campbell  himself:  Erin  with 
repairing  ?  which,  you  see,  is  rather  worse  than  that  of  robin 
with  sobbing  in  the  nursery  chant  of  Cock  Robin. 

W.  This  licentious  kind  of  rhyme  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  in 
some  degree  sanctioned  by  the  orthoepist  WALKER,  who,  in 
the  preface  to  his  Pronouncing  Dictionary,  would  make  it  ap- 
pear, that  the  final  consonant  in  many  of  the  participles  end- 
ing in  ing  is  suppressed  by  the  politest  speakers. 

A.  I  know  not  how  that  may  be  in  ENGLAND,  but  with  us  it 
is  considered,  and  justly,  a  mark  of  vulgarity.  However,  here 
is  POPE  himself.  You  see  he  brings  Hellen  and  compelling 
into  unison. 

W.  That  is  an  unfortunate  instance,  ERNEST  ;  for  you  your- 
self have  made  dwelling  rhyme  with  Ellen,  in  one  of  your  odes. 

A.  Yes,  to  my  regret     I  had  the  couplet  thus : 

"And  o'er  the  dewy  heather 
We  took  our  way  together ;  " 

but  actually  being  ignorant  whether  heather  could  possibly 
suit  the  locality  of  the  poem,  I  was  compelled  to  admit  a  bar- 
barism that  is  sanctioned  by  usage;  it  being  better  to  offend  in 
rhyme  than  in  reason. 

W.  But  there  is  a  bolder  innovation  still,  which  you  have 
made  in  rhymes. 

A.  Eh?  What?    Mirtenbaum? 

W.  Yes,  you  put  that  name  in  consonance  with  storm.  I 
recollect  the  lines : 

"  And  her  large  eyes  grew  black  with  threaten'd  storm 
To  Baron  MAXIMILIAN  MIRTENBAUM." 

A.  I  do  so,  because  I  suppose  that  Mirtenbaum  will  be  pro- 
nounced by  every  reader  as  if  the  last  syllable  were  written 
bawm;  just,  in  fact,  as  you  have  done  it  this  very  moment 
Now  will  you  please  to  sound  storm  for  me  by  itself?  not  as 
an  IRISHMAN,  nor  as  an  ITALIAN,  but  as  a  well-bred  inhabitant 
of  LONDON,  or  as  an  AMERICAN  would  give  it  There !  Can 


IN  ENGLISH  POETS.  li 

you  tell  me  what  difference  there  is  between  this  orm  and 
atom  ?  You  cannot ;  for  you  cannot,  without  effort,  make  the 
difference  perceptible,  in  a  moderately  quick  enunciation.  It 
is  a  difference  rather  for  the  eye  than  for  the  ear  ;  and  I  defy 
a  foreigner  to  detect  any  want  of  unison  between  aw  and  or, 
except  they  be  pronounced  with  an  effort  that  is  intended  to 
mark  the  distinction,  or  except  an  IRISHMAN,  or  a  SCOTCHMAN, 
or  a  native  of  the  north  of  ENGLAND  be  the  speaker.  That  I 
have  not  used  such  a  rhyme  from  necessity  is  evident  from 
the  fact  that  the  name  is  one  of  mere  fancy,  and  that  I  could 
have  accommodated  the  gallant  Baron  with  any  other  title 
than  that  significative  of  the  plant  of  Venus. 

W.  But  now  I  think  of  it,  you  have  also  made  Chaucer 
rhyme  with  coarser. 

Jl.  That  is  true.  And  the  very  fact  that  I  was  not  aware 
of  having  done  so,  shows  you  how  very  nearly  perfect  must 
be  the  accord.  But  suppose,  for  argument,  that  the  rhyme 
be  really  defective ;  how  its  deformity  will  shrink  before  the 
greater  unshapeliness  of  such  as  these  which  I  will  show  you 
from  eminent  poets.  BYRON  has  any  ill  in  unison  with  spaniel, 
(making  the  latter  a  trisyllable,)  ideal  and  real  with  steal  (making 
steal  a  dissyllable,  or  converting  the  two  former  words  into 
monosyllables.) 

W.  But  BYRON,  one  of  the  most  irregular  and  incorrect 
of  poets,  can  hardly  be  expected  to  deviate  into  order  and  rule 
in  his  rhymes,  especially  in  his  comic  poems. 

A.  No;  but  in  his  version  of  DANTE'S  Francesco,  which  is 
nowise  comic,  except  in  its  rudeness,  we  have,  in  the  very 
first  tercet,  seas  rhyming  with  peace,  as  though  this  were  pro- 
nounced like  pease,  the  vegetable.  Let  us  then  take  up  the 
most  correct  of  all  English  poets,  and  the  most  classical.  This, 
I  need  not  say,  is  POPE.  You  will  find  that  his  serious  as 
well  as  his  lighter  compositions  are  not  free  from  such  defects. 
Here,  in  the  Essay  on  Criticism,  is  delight  in  consonance  with 
wit,  and  again,  ligld  with  the  same.  Then  in  the  Essay  on 


lii  THE  PRESENT   VOLUME  :  EPIGRAM  XV. 

Man,  we  have  sincere  with  where,  cowl  with  fool,  and  succeeds 
with  spreads.  GRAY  too,  in  the  Long  Story,  would  have  clothing 
rhyme  with  nothing,  between  which  words  there  is  clearly  no 
accord  whatever.  But  it  were  idle  to  pursue  this  subject. 
Have  you  no  further  consolation  to  extend  to  rne  ? 

W.  On  what  ?  your  poems  ?  None.  You  know  with  you, 
"I  am  nothing  if  not  critical."  Therefore  I  must  ask  you, 
what  necessity  impels  you  to  the  publication  of  that  fifteenth 
Epigram,  and  that  other,  which  you  call  an  Epitaph? 

«4.  For  the  first,  I  will  answer  you  as  I  did  my  publishers, 
(that  are  to  be,)  when  on  three  several  occasions  they  remon- 
strated with  me  upon  the  insertion  of  that  piece.  I  see  a  per- 
son in  the  community  who.  from  his  quarrelsome  disposition, 
has  obtained  an  authority  through  the  timidity  or  the  prudence 
of  the  many,  which  it  were  a  libel  on  humanity  to  say  he  could 
ever  have  gained  by  the  solidity  of  his  character  or  by  the 
weight  of  his  judgment.  This  man  I  had  not,  only  spared  in 
the  Vision  of  Rubeta,  where  so  many  of  his  betters,  less  de- 
serving of  a  notice,  were  put  upon  the  moral  rack,  but  had 
even  slightly  commended  (however  injudiciously,  as  I  soon  dis- 
covered,) being  induced  thereto  by  a  motive  of  fancied  obliga- 
tion which  is  known  to  you,  and  which  at  no  distant  day,  will 
be  explained  to  the  public.  How  this  forbearance,  or  direct 
kindness,  has  been  requited,  through  mere  bravade,  I  need  not 
repeat  to  you,  and  the  foot  of  my  intended  volume  will  testify 
to  others.  Now,  besides  the  duty  which  I  feel  it  to  be  mine 
to  expose  to  contempt  this  person,  if  I  can,  I  owe  it  to  myself, 
that  I  should  not  be  thought  to  make  any  distinction  between 
those  who  do  not  openly  bear  weapons  and  those  who  thrust 
them  occasionally  in  the  very  face  of  the  community. 

W.  But  that  you  have  done  in  other  places. 

A.  Mere  by-blows.  This  is  levelled  full  at  him,  and  with 
all  my  force.  Besides,  would  you  have  a  poet's  reason  ?  I 

would  not  omit  that  epigram,  as  I  told  the  Messrs.  APPL N, 

ulle  lor  concezioni  mercantesche  il  mio  ragionamento  adattando, 


INDEPENDENCE  OF  THOUGHT  IN  THE  U.  STATES,    liii 

if  you  would  count  me  out  a  hundred  dollars  for  every  letter 
in  it,  and  a  thousand  to  boot  for  every  line.  It  is  my  darling. 
Do  you  understand  me? 

W.  And  for  this  vanity  . . .     Excuse  me. 

A.  Go  on.  Think  you  I  am  ashamed  to  hear  my  trade 
called  by  its  name  ?  What  does  a  poet  ever  publish  for,  but 
vanity  ?  for  what  is  ambition  ? 

W.  Well,  and  for  this  ambition,  you  would  .  .  . 

Jl.  Bah  !  no  more.  Poco  duri,  purchd  m'innalzi.  But,  to 
sum  up  all  that  you  and  my  publishers  have  to  say  on  this, 
and  other  pieces  like  it  in  the  volume,  I  tell  you,  that  it  is  time 
that  some  one  should  assert,  in  this  republic,  the  independence 
of  opinion.  Where  is  it  to  be  found  as  yet  ?  Where  ?  Are 
there  ten  persons  in  this  large  city  of  NEW  YORK  that  dare  to 
say  their  right  hand  is  their  right,  if  the  public  press  shall 
swear  it  is  their  left  —  as  it  is  very  likely  to  do  ?  We  are 

retrograding,  W ;  and  the  liberty  of  the  press,  which 

should  be  the  bulwark  of  freedom,  has  confined  that  freedom 
to  a  single  set,  which  makes  a  tyranny  as  oppressive  to  the 
mind,  as  the  despotism  of  monarchs  is  to  the  body.  We  flour- 
ish indeed  in  wealth  and  in  strength  ;  we  have  bread  to  eat  and 
clothes  to  put  upon  our  back ;  but  we  dare  not  think  :  the  pub- 
lic press  proclaims  its  rash  and  ignorant  opinions,  and  the  peo- 
ple tamely  echo  them  ;  and  the  great  republic  stands  still,  or 
totters  to  its  centre,  according  as  a  plentiful  meal  or  a  political 
disappointment  may  satisfy  the  stomach  or  discompose  the 
temper  of  its  thousand  tyrants.  But  I  am  getting  warm.  Let 
me  read  to  you  what  a  foreigner  says  of  us.  I  copied  it  for 
the  very  purpose  of  one  day  citing  the  passage.  "  In  AMERI- 
CA, the  majority  "...  But  first,  you  will  please  to  bear  in 
mind,  that  "  the  majority  "  receives  its  opinions  ready-manu- 
factured. It  is  therefore  to  the  public  press  that  you  are  to  ap- 
ply the  language  of  Mr.  DE  TOCQUEXKLET 

"In  AMERICA,  the  majority  raises  very  formidable  barriers  to  the 
liberty  of  opinion.  Within  these  barriers,  an  author  may  write  what- 
ever he  pleases;  but  he  will  repent  it,  if  he  ever  step  beyond  them.  Not 


liv  INDEPENDENCE  OF  THOUGHT 

that  he  is  exposed  to  the  terrors  of  an  auto-da-fe  ;  but  he  is  tormented 
by  the  slights  and  persecutions  of  daily  obloquy.  His  political  career  is 
closed  for  ever,  since  he  has  offended  the  only  authority  which  is  able 
to  promote  his  success.  Every  sort  of  compensation,  even  that  of 
celebrity,  is  refused  to  him.  Before  he  published  his  opinions,  he  imag- 
ined that  he  held  them  in  common  with  many  others  ;  but  no  sooner  has  he 
declared  them  openly,  than  he  is  loudly  censured  by  his  overbearing  oppo- 
nents, whilst  those  who  think,  without  having  the  courage  to  speak,  like 
him,  abandon  him  in  silence." 

W.  One  would  think,  that  the  writer  were  describing  your 
very  case,  ERNEST. 

A.  True  :  the  words  fit  none  so  well.  But,  so  far,  the  pic- 
ture they  present  is  that  of  the  fortune  which  attends  on  truth 
in  all  ages,  and  under  all  forms  of  government ;  for  what  says 
the  moral  poet  ? 

"Truths  would  you  teach,  or  save  a  sinking  land  ? 
All  fear,  none  aid  you,  and  few  understand."  (i) 

But  to  continue : 

"  He  yields  at  length,  oppressed  by  the  daily  efforts  he  has  been  mak- 
ing, and  he  subsides  into  silence,  as  if  he  was  tormented  by  remorse 
for  having  spoken  the  truth." 

W.  That,  at  least,  is  not  you. 

A.  Nor  ever  will  be,  till  the  grave  shall  cover  me. 

"  Monarchical  institutions  have  thrown  an  odium  upon  despotism  : 
let  us  beware  lest  democratic  republics  should  restore  oppression,  and 
should  render  it  less  odious  and  less  degrading  in  the  eyes  of  the  many,  by 
making  it  sti/l  more  onerous  to  the  few. 

"  Works  have  been  published  in  the  proudest  nations  of  the  Old 
World,  expressly  intended  to  censure  the  vices  and  deride  the  follies  of 
the  times.  LABRUYERE  inhabited  the  palace  of  Louis  XIV.  when  he 
composed  his  chapter  upon  the  Great,  and  MOLIERE  criticized  the 
courtiers  in  the  very  pieces  which  were  acted  before  the  court.  But 
the  ruling  power  in  the  UNITED  STATES  is  not  to  be  made  game  of; 
the  smallest  reproach  irritates  its  sensibility,  and  the  slightest  joke 
which  has  any  foundation  in  truth  renders  it  indignant ;  from  the  style 
of  its  language  to  the  more  solid  virtues  of  its  character,  every  thing 
must  be  made  the  subject  of  encomium.  No  writer,  whatever  his  em- 
inence can  escape  from  this  tribute  of  adulation  to  his  fellow-citizens. 
The  majority  lives  in  the  perpetual  practice  of  self-applause ;  and  there 
are  certain  truths  which  the  AMERICANS  can  only  learn  from  strangers, 
or  from  experience. 

(l)  Essay  on  Man,  iv.  265. 


IN  THE  UNITED  STATES.  lv 

"  If  great  writers  have  not  at  present  existed  in  AMERICA,  the  reason 
is  very  simply  given  in  these  facts  ;  there  can  be  no  literary  genius  with- 
out freedom  of  opinion,  and  freedom  of  opinion  does  not  exist  in 
AMERICA." 

There,  what  think  you  of  that? 

W.  Truth,  every  word,  iu  the  application  you  have  made  of 
it.  But  did  you  mark  the  consequences  predicted  for  the  man 
who  dares  to  oppose  this  worst  of  tyrannies  ? 

JL  Yes ;  and  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times,  that  I  am 
prepared  to  meet  them.  I  live  for  ho  other  purpose. 

W.  And  you  may  die  for  it. 

A.  Amen,  so  I  shall  die  free.  Liberty  can  never  write  upon 
my  grave,  Recreant,  as  she  could  on  that  of  many  a  poet,  nor 
Truth  that  little  word  which  might  be  the  pithy  epitaph  of 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  tombstones  out  of  every  thou- 
sand. 

W.  Dear  ERNEST,  pardon  me.    I  was  but  jesting. 

A.  And  1  was  pharisaical.  But,  to  finish  at  once  this  ego- 
tism : —  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  emigre?  It  is  a  species  of 
sand-flea  in  the  WEST  INDIES.  The  minute  insect  inserts 
itself  beneath  the  skin  of  the  thumbs,  or  of  the  toes,  and  there 
deposites  its  innumerable  eggs.  If  the  cyst  thus  formed  be  not 
at  once  extirpated,  the  part  swells,  and  ulcerates,  and  the  suf- 
ferer may  be  crippled  for  life.  Such  is  the  commencement 
and  the  growth  of  every  evil.  Already  has  a  prolific  source 
of  mischief  burrowed  deeply  into  the  literary,  moral,  and  po- 
litical systems  of  our  republic.  I  stand  ready  to  perform  the 
needful  operation. 

W.  And  you  will  receive  for  recompence  only  the  kicks  and 
cries  of  your  patient. 

Jl.  And  the  scurrilous  abuse  of  his  mercenary  attendants, 
whose  interest  it  is  to  keep  him  groaning.  However,  do  not 
be  alarmed,  my  most  prudent  friend  ;  there  will  be  no  actual 
cutting  for  the  present.  The  satirical  parts  of  my  new  volume 
will  not  amount,  as  you  must  have  seen,  to  more  than  a  third, 


Ivi  FAME. 

I  should  think,  of  the  whole ;  and  even  of  that  much  is  occa- 
sional, and  it  occurs  at  considerable  intervals. 

W.  And  it  is  on  that  account,  as  well  as  from  the  variety  of 
the  work,  that  I  anticipate  for  it  a  greater  popularity  than  has 
attended  the  Vision. 

A.  Amen! 

"  Se  mai  continga  che  poeme  questi 

Vincon  la  niquita  che  fuor  mi  serra 
Del  bello  ovile  ov'  io  dormii  agnello, 
.Nimico  a'  lupi  che  li  danno  guerra, 
Con  altra  voce  omai,  con  altro  vello 
Ritorner6  poeta."  . .  .  (i) 

W.  And  amen  to  that !  for  I  know  to  what  you  allude.  — 
But  I  have  sat  out  the  day,  ERNEST,  and  have  finished  your 
claret. 

A.  And  what  then  ?  If  that  be  all  that  drives  you  off,  we 
can  have  lights,  and  there  in  the  hearth  is  the  other  bottle,  — 
which,  by  the  by,  you  have  made  me  quite  forget. 

W.  O  thank  you.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  been  here  two 
good  hours? 

A.  Yet,  how  short  the  time 'has  seemed!  at  least  to  me. — 
And  even  so  brief — will  appear  the  fame  for  which  I  labor, 
supposing  that  I  should  obtain  it.  See,  my  friend,  the  clouds 
have  lost  their  lovely  colors,  and  the  whole  horizon  is  mix- 
ing into  one,  the  birds  have  long  since  ceased  their  song,  the 
very  breeze  has  died  away,  and  the  flowers  are  no  longer  dis- 
tinguishable in  shape  or  in  tint  from  the  commonest  weeds 
that  grow. 

W.  Yes,  but  far  west,  ERNEST,  in  the  world  far  west,  the 
sun  is  yet  high  in  heaven,  perhaps  has  but  begun  his  course, 

(0  DANTE.    Par.  xxv.,  with  a  few  verbal  alterations  :  — 

If  it  should  ever  chance,  lhat  these  my  poems 

O'ercome  the  iniquity,  that  doth  me  bar 
From  the  fair  fold  where  I  a  lamb  did  lie, 
Foe  to  the  wolves  that  make  upon  it  war, 
With  other  voice,  and  other  fleece  will  I 
A  bard  return  . .  . 


IMMORTALITY.  Ivii 

birds  are  carolling  as  sweetly  as  your  wrens,  the  selfsame 
breeze,  or  one  as  soft,  may  be  wafting  over  other  plants  a 
similar  coolness  and  as  rich  a  fragrance,  and  other  flowers,  of 
hues  as  brilliant,  be  expanding  their  varied  petals  in  the  light 
they  love.  And  then,  dear  ERNEST,  has  not  the  night  its 
recompense,  with  its  awful  stillness,  its  solemn  infinitude,  and 
its  stars  that  shine  with  a  cool  and  steady  splendor  that  we  love 
to  contemplate,  a  splendor  that  scorches  not,  nor  makes  us 
turn  aside  the  gaze,  but  that  satisfies  without  pain  the  admi- 
ration it  invites,  and  that  fills  the  heart  with  tenderness  and 
with  devotion  ? 

A.  True,  true.  And  that  night,  my  friend,  that  night  is  the 
immortality  of  the  bard.  Your  poetry  and  your  philosophy 
are  better  than  my  own. 

W.  With  which  reflection  to  encourage  you,  and  to  reward 
and  flatter  me,  I  leave  you  to  your  meditations.  Think  of  the 
uight,  ERNEST,  and  lift  up  your  gaze  to  the  stars, 

A.  I  must ;  I  will ;  I  do. 


ARTHUR    CARRYL 

A  NOVEL. 

Far  mi  convien  come  fa  il  buono 

Senator  sopra  il  suo  strumento  arguto, 
Che  spesso  muta  corda,  e  varia  suono, 
Ricercando  ora  il  grave,  ora  1'acuto. 

AR.  Orl.  TIII.  29. 

CANTOS 
FIRST    AND    SECOND. 


CANTO     FIRST. 

D'andar  subito  in  FRANCIA  si  dispone, 

E  cosl  torna  al  porto 

Onde uscendo  fuora, 

Verso  CALESSIO  fe'  drizzar  la  prora. 

AR.  Orl.  xxn.  8. 


ARTHUR    CARRYL 


A   NOVEL. 


CANTO    FIRST. 
I. 

WERE  I  to  rig  my  skiff  like  WORDSWORTH'S  "boat,"  (i) 
And  BLACKVVOOD'S  medley  make  my  chart  in  sailing,  (2) 
With  pleasure  would  the  people  see  me  float, 
And  the  rocks  echo  to  their  jocund  hailing  ; 

H Y  himself,  (3)  no  doubt,  my  keel  would  note, 

And  swear  I  row'd  when  I  was  only  bailing  ! 

(1)  Allusion   to  the   childish   story  of   Peter   Bell,   which  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH'S  fanatical  disciples  would  have  to  contain  so  much 
mysterious  beauty,  and  a  moral   that  none  but  themselves  can 
discover.     The  rhymes  particularly  alluded   to,  in  the  text,  are 
those  which  have  already  been  cited  in  the  Appendix  to  the  Vision 
of  Rubeta : 

"  There  's  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
And  something  in  a  huge  balloon ; 
But  through  the  clouds  I  '11  never  float, 
Until  I  have  a  little  boat, 
Whose  shape  is  like  the  crescent  moon." 

(2)  Blackwood's  Magazine  is  well  known  to  its  readers  to  be  of 
the  most  enthusiastic  of  the  fakirs,  who  perform  pirouettes,  with  a 
rag  on  their  shoulders,  in  honor  of  WORDSWORTH'S  poetic  heresy 
and  impostures. 

(3)  The  editor  (or  was,  when  this  was  written,)  of  the  JVeic- 
York  Review,  a  monstrous  quarterly  compilation,  where  the  mon- 

1* 


6  DESCRIPTIVE  POETS. 

While  ev'ry  fool,  from  Fundy  to  Cape  Sable, 
Would  find  a  magic  in  my  poorest  cable,  (i) 


II. 

But,  as  the  dullest  miss,  with  pleasant  skill, 
May  trace  on  velvet  all  the  tribes  of  flow' rs, 
Or  color  rainbows,  kittens,  babes,  (2)  at  will, 
Yet  finds  the  passions  quite  beyond  her  pow'rs, 
To  chronicle  the  teeth  of  Harry  Gill  (3) 
Is  but  the  pothooks  in  this  art  of  ours  ; 
And  man's  py'd  soul  more  curious  tints  discloses, 
Than  ever  beautify 'd  a  bed  of  roses.  (4) 

grel  English  of  Mr.  CARLYLE,  after  the  approved  model  of  the 
Edinburgh  Magazine,  is  the  fit  vehicle  for  such  an  opinion  as 
sets  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  in  the  higher  class  of  poets,  and  denies 
to  ALEXANDER  POPE  aught  but  mellifluous  versification.  The 
ignorance,  dogmatism,  and  Tom-of-Bedlam  fervor,  which  give  sucli 
zest  to  the  otherwise  vapid  contents  of  this  American  miscellany, 
are  endeavoured  to  be  marked  in  the  succeeding  line.  The  efforts 
to  prevent  a  leaky  craft  from  sinking  would  be  easily  mistaken,  by 
such  an  observer,  for  the  regular  labor  which  maintains  a  proper 
vessel  in  progression. 

(i) "  There  's  magic  in  the  web  of  it."     Othello,  iii.  4. 

(2)  See  for  these  things   the  admired  Lyrical  Ballads  of  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH.    They  are,  in  the  opinion  of  his  followers,  the  an- 
gels, men,  and  devils  of  their  poetic  Bonarroti. 

(3)  "  In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 

'T  is  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill; 
The  neighbours  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still,"  &c. 

WORDSWORTH.     Goody  Blake. 

(4)  The  insignificance  of  descriptive  when  compared  with  epic 
or  with  moral  poetry,  and  of  course  with  all  those  kinds  which 


PROEM. 


III. 


Besides,  I  do  not  choose,  where T  sings, 

To  try  a  note  that  would  be  sure  to  blunder  ; 

And 's  lyre  has  music  in  its  strings 

To  rival  which  would  snap  my  chords  asunder  ; 
My  muse  is  feather'd  with  a  vulture's  wings,  — 
Rough-plum'd,  but  dreading  neither  rain  nor  thunder  ; 
If  not  such  strains  as  make  the  life-blood  quicken, 
She  chants  no  threnodies  upon  a  chicken. 


IV. 


I  am  not,  it  is  true,  what  N — H  would  make  me, 
Yet  not  the  worst  since  BARLOW'S  stilts  were  broken  ; 
And,  if  my  spirit  should  not  aff  forsake  me, 
I  '11  prove  it,  ere  we  part,  by  many  a  token. 

partake  more  or  less  of  the  nature  -of  these  two,  is  readily  illus' 
trated  by  the  image  above  given,  taken  from  a  sister  art.  How 
few  well-educated  men  or  women  are  there,  at  the  present  day, 
who  cannot  versify,  where  the  subject  of  their  muse  is  found  in 
inanimate,  or  even  in  the  mere  external  forms  of  animated  nature. 
How  very,  very  few,  who  can  make  us  poetry  on  man, —  man,  I 
mean,  in  the  various  circumstances  and  relations,  which  arise  from 
his  implex  character.  The  followers  of  PAUSIAS,  of  ANTIPHILUS, 
and  of  LUDIUS,  are  as  the  stars  in  multitude,  all  sparkling,  though 
with  different  degrees  of  brilliancy ;  they  who  have  ventured  to 
assume  the  pencil  of  APELLES  and  PARRHASIUS  are  rare  indeed 
in  the  comparison  ;  and  of  this  number  how  many  can  we  count, 
whose  efforts  have  sufficed  to  render  them  other  than  ridiculous  ? 
It  is  even  so  in  poetry.  A  thousand  such  poets  as  WORDSWORTH 
spring  up  in  every  age,  the  denizens  of  every  clime.  Has  the 
whole  world,  since  the  date  of  ORPHEUS,  given  birth  to  ten  like 
POPE  ? 


8  THE  DOVER  PACKET. 

I  left  the  Devil  in  Hell  (pray  don't  mistake  me  !)  (i) 
On  purpose  to  relate  what  here  is  spoken,  — 
The  theme  of  this  my  mirthful,  tearful  poem, 
And  rythmic  novel.     But  enough  of  proem. 

V. 

'T  was  ten  o'clock,  one  sunny  morn  in  May. 
The  packet  was  prepar'd  to  start  from  DOVER. 
Restless,  her  hulk  lay  fast  beside  the  quay, 
Round  as  a  bowl,  and  black  as  any  rover  ; 
Not  like  our  vapor-barges,  I  would  say, 
Where  one  may  live,  do  all  but  sleep,  in  clover  ; 
But  fitted  for  the  frith  whose  name  is  written 
A  different  way  in  FRANCE  from  that  in  BRITAIN. 

.'.     VI. 

The  passengers,  save  one,  were  all  aboard, 
The  baggage  stow'd,  the  engine  slowly  heaving  ; 
The  hands  but  waited  for  the  master's  word 
To  slip  the  fasts  ;   and  every  one  was  grieving 
Those  minutes  should  be  wasted  few  afford 
To  lose  from  their  existence  when  they  're  leaving 
A  wife  or  husband  ;   for,  in  moral  rating, 
A  minute  is  an  age  to  him  that  's  waiting. 


(i)  See  the  specimen  of  the  Fifth  Canto  of  the  Vision,  which, 
at  the  close  of  this  volume,  is  given  for  reasons  mentioned  in  the 
Preface. 


THE  HUNCHBACK. 


VII. 


Hence  many  idlers,  who  consume  whole  days 
In  gaping  'twixt  their  morning's  meal  and  dinner, 
Grow  economic,  when  a  horse,  or  chaise, 
Or  mistress  is  behindhand.     One  lean  sinner, 
Who  stood  beneath  the  ladder,  divers  ways 
Venting  vexation,  and  seem'd  wearing  thinner 
With  spite,  exclaim'd  :  "  A  valet  !  so  deliberate  ! 
Why,  damn  him,  this  is  more  than  inconsiderate  !  " 

VIII. 

He  said,  as,  coming  at  a  lame  dog's  speed, 

Appear'd  the  unconscious  theme  of  observation  ; 

His  best  exertion  at  his  utmost  need. 

Poor  wretch  deform 'd  !  he  knew  too  well  his  station, 

To  keep  his  betters  waiting  ;  and,  indeed, 

The  big  round  drops  that  cours'd,  without  cessation, 

Adown  his  pallid  features,  show'd  him  striving 

To  make  up  for  lost  minutes  in  arriving. 


IX. 


He  saw,  as  he  approach'd,  the  looks  unkind, 

Which  all  men,  save  his  master,  on  him  threw, 

And  thereat  losing  quite  his  cooler  mind, 

With  fear  of  being  left  so  troubled  grew, 

His  feet  became  unsure,  his  eyes  sandblind  ; 

He  stumbled,  fell,  and  in  his  fall  o'erthrew 

The  man  whose  brow  presag'd  such  stormy  weather, 

And  both  came  prostrate  on  the  deck  together. 


10  THE  ALDUS. 


X. 


It  happened  that  the  hunchback  in  his  hand 
Held  the  small  cause  of  this  unblest  delay,  — 
A  book  ;  which  left  upon  his  bedroom-stand, 
He  'd  begg'd  permission  to  retrace  his  way, 
(The  inn  being  no  great  distance  from  the  strand  ;) 
Nor  could  the  gentle  ARTHUR  say  him  nay. 
But  FELIX  found  (no  very  rare  vexation) 
The  minutes  far  outstrip  all  calculation. 


XI. 


No  common  valet,  as  you  soon  shall  know, 

Was  FELIX  ;  and  his  book  was  worth  the  minding  ; 

One  of  the  rarest  of  that,  goodly  row, 

Which  have  the  fish  and  anchor  next  the  binding  ;  (l) 

(See  Dibdin,  —  page  three-fifty-two,  or  so,  (2)  — 

Who  tells  you  that  the  tract  is  hard  of  finding  ;) 

Senecce  Questionum  Libri  Septem. 

He  'd  bought  'em  in  Pall  Mall,  where  EVANS  (3)  kept  'em. 


XII. 

In  perfect  order,  gilt,  and  bound  in  calf, 
Without  a  stain,  or  flaw,  within  or  out  it  : 


(1)  The  well  known  mark  of  ALDUS. 

(2)  Of  the  second  edition. 

(s)  An  auctioneer,  whose  catalogues  of  books  often  comprise 
the  rarest,  as  well  as  the  most  magnificent  works  to  be  found  in 
LONDON. 


THE   STRUGGLE.  H 

3T  was  knock'd  down  to  him  at  a  pound  and  half; 

Nor  let  the  purchasers  of  Keepsakes  (i)  flout  it  ; 

The  proverb  says,  that  he  ivho  wins  may  laugh, 

And  FELIX  thought  his  whistle  cheap,  (who  'd  doubt  it  ?) 

The  night  our  modern  .ZEsop  got  to  DOVER, 

He  took  it  to  his  bed,  and  ran  it  over. 

XIII. 

To  lose  this  gem  it  would  have  broke  his  heart. 
(Your  bookworm's  grief  is  as  a  lover  grieves. 
In  rapture  too  he  plays  no  sager  part.) 
He  finds  his  rose,  and  scarce  his  eye  believes. 
Just  where  he  'd  left  it  in  his  haste  to  start  ; 
And  lo  !  his  pencil  still  between  the  leaves,  — 
To  mark  his  place,  the  last  book  of  the  treatise, 
Where  Lucius  tells  us  something  De  Cornells. 

XIV. 

I  said  this  volume,  when  the  hunchback  fell, 

Was  in  his  hand.     Its  palm  the  leaves  held  tight. 

The  pencil,  still  between  them,  sad  to  tell  ! 

Its  sharpen'd  point  drove  through  one  orb  of  sight, 

Of  him  who  gasp'd  beneath  him.     With  a  yell, 

The  victim  own'd  the  partial  loss  of  light,  — 

One  minute,  roll'd  in  anguish  on  the  deck, 

The  next,  sprang  up,  and  grasp'd  the  valet's  neck. 

(i)     Where  the  pictures  for  the  page  atone, 

And  fools  are  sav'd  by  merits  not  their  own. 

POPE  (modified). 


12  THE  WOUNDED  EYE. 

XV. 

Then,  had  the  struggle  been  between  the  foes, 

Where  nought  but  HEAVEN  could  see,  or  HELL  might 

hear, 

Poor  FELIX'  day  had  found  a  sudden  close  ; 
But  many  interfer'd  there  standing  near. 
Before  the  rest  did  CARRYL  interpose, 
And  with  an  effort  set  the  hunchback  clear,  — 
Then  calmly  said,  to  him  who  'd  lost  an  eye, 
"No  man  shall  touch  my  servant  while  I  'm  by. 

XVI. 

"  To  say  I  'm  shock'd  at  what  has  taken  place 

Would  but  insult  your  grief,  nor  suit  with  me  ; 

But  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  to  your  face, 

You  suffer  punishment  by  just  decree, 

Who  chose  your  birth  and  breeding  to  debase, 

To  gratify  a  mean  malignity. 

Had  not  your  malice  plac'd  you  where  you  stood, 

You  had  not  lost  an  eye,  nor  sham'd  your  blood." 

XVII. 

Full  on  his  censurer  the  censur'd  cast 
The  fury  of  his  widow'd  eye,  which  gleam'd 
Like  to  a  coal  that  's  stirr'd  by  sudden  blast, 
While  from  the  mangled  orb  a  humor  stream'd 
Bedropp'd  with  gore  ;  and  women  stood  aghast 
To  look  on  him,  and  little  children  scream'd. 
Then  from  his  lips  these  angry  accents  broke, 
So  loud,  two  men  shrunk  from  him  as  he  spoke  :  — 


THE  DEFIANCE.  13 

XVIII. 

"  A  second  time,  sir,  you  have  cross'd  my  path, 

To  put  shame  on  me.     Let  it  be  no  more  ! 

For,  by  high  HEAVEN  !  which  knows  my  cause  of  wrath, 

You  'd  better  be" and  here  he  darkly  swore. 

No  word  in  any  language  power  hath 

To  express  the  smile  which  CARIIYL'S  features  wore, 

As  quietly  he  answer'd,  "  If  you  care  to 

There  's  FRANCE,  you  know I  mean,  sir,  If  you 

dare  to." 

XIX. 

He  that  hath  touch'd  a  snail  upon  the  horn, 
And  seen  the  creature  shrink  within  its  shell, 
May  image  how  the  pale  man's  wrath  and  scorn 
Sunk  o'  the  sudden,  and  his  features  fell. 
He  seem'd  to  be  the  meekest  creature  born, 
And  turn'd  with  head  deject,  and  mutter'd  "Well  !" 
But  none  knew  why  ;   for  ARTHUR,  in  compassion, 
Dropt  in  his  ear  the  oil  that  smooth'd  his  passion. 


XX. 


Then  aid  was,  such  as  might  be,  freely  given. 
Though  they  that  felt  the  most  approach'd  him  not  : 
Young  ARTHUR  and  his  man.     The  latter,  driven 
With  fury  back,  when  venturing  near  the  spot, 
Affected  sullenness  ;  yet  even  HEAVEN 
Saw  not  his  mind  more  clearly  than,  I  wot, 
Did  most  that  mark'd  him,  troubled  and  confounded, 
Turn  stealthily  his  eyes  on  whom  he  'd  wounded,  — 
2 


14  FELIX. 

XXI. 

As,  sitting  pensive  down,  the  mast  beside, 
The  face,  disease  had  render'd  wan,  more  pale, 
His  better  nature  struggling  with  the  pride 
Philosophy  had  taught  without  avail, 
He  watch'd,  from  time  to  time,  the  means  apply'd 
Refrigerant,  and  pray'd  they  might  not  fail. 
He  long'd  to  say,  and  told  indeed  his  master, 
That  blindness  need  not  follow  the  disaster. 

XXII. 

CARRYL,  who  knew  that  FELIX  was  well  read 
In  more  than  one  great  branch  of  human  learning, 
Felt  much  reliev'd  by  what  the  hunchback  said, 
And  wasted  on  this  score  no  more  heart-burning  ; 
And  FELIX  fond,  who  would  have  given  his  head 
To  do  him  pleasure,  did  not  venture  turning 
His  thoughts  to  one  more  point  of  observation, 
That  gave  his  own  try'd  heart  no  small  vexation. 

XXIII. 

But  ARTHUR  had  observ'd,  nor  would  accord 
A  care  his  haughty  spirit  bade  him  smother 
To  threaten'd  ill.     There  chanc'd  to  be  aboard 
A  man,  the  son  of  CARRYL'S  mother's  brother. 
This  person  (GRENVILLE  SUTTON  nam'd)  was  lord 
Of  a  rich  heritage,  to  which  the  other 
(So  all  men  thought,  at  least)  should  have  succeeded. 
Though,  when  their  uncle's  will  was  open'd,  he  did. 


GRENVILLE  SUTTON.  15 

XXIV. 

Yet  of  this  uncle  ARTHUR  still  had  been 
The  favorite  even  to  his  dying  hour  ; 
While  GRENVILLE,  striving  more,  could  never  win 
The  old  man's  heart.     Attraction  not  the  dow'r 
Which  Nature  gave  him,  in  his  visage  thin 
There  was  a  something  that  defy'd  your  pow'r 
To  say  what  made  you  shun  it,  when  all  there 
Was  smooth  as  summer  lake,  and  seem'd  as  fair. 

XXV. 

Perhaps  for  that  it  was  too  like  in  look 
A  summer  lake,  in  which  you  ne'er  confide. 
Men  view  without  distrust  the  noisy  brook  ; 
And  when  the  torrent  from  the  mountain's  side 
Comes  tumbling  down,  who  ever  hath  mistook 
Its  headlong  power,  and  in  mistake  defy'd  ? 
But  in  the  glassy  lake  are  unknown  deeps, 
And  storms  brood  o'er  the  surface  while  it  sleeps. 

XXVI. 

This  ere  the  aged  uncle  sunk  to  rest. 
But  when  the  cousin  came  to  his  estate, 
And  ARTHUR  CARRYL  to  his  small  bequest, 
The  lake  grew  ruffled  ;  on  its  surface  sate 
Perpetual  shade  ;  and  CARRYL,  once  carest, 
Was  strangely  shunn'd  ;  and  then  a  sudden  hate 
Seem'd  to  spring  up  in  GRENVILLE  SUTTON'S  brain  ; 
For  even  to  mention  ARTHUR  gave  him  pain. 


16  THE  COUSINS. 

XXVII. 

Little  car'd  ARTHUR,  frank  and  ardent-hearted, 
For  loss  of  friendship  he  had  never  priz'd. 
He  felt  reliev'd  the  unequal  yoke  had  parted, 
But  at  this  enmity  was  sore  surpris'd. 
Soon  after,  thougli  at  different  dates,  both  started 
For  EUROPE,  and,  as  evil  Fate  advis'd, 
Each  chose  this  day,  to  gratify  her  malice, 
To  cross  the  narrow  Straits  and  visit  CALAIS. 

XXVIII. 

FELIX,  who  knew  whate'er  had  pass'd  between 

His  master  and  dark  SUTTON,  saw  this  latter, 

Just  at  the  close  of  that  unpleasant  scene, 

Grow  strangely  interested  in  the  matter, 

Sit  by  the  wounded  man,  and,  then,  this  lean 

On  SUTTON 's  arm,  and  their  familiar  chatter. 

He  knew  him  not,  but  judg'd  the  recent  quarrel 

Had  broke  no  love  'twixt  him  and  ARTHUR  CARRY L. 

XXIX. 

He  saw,  and  fear'd  some  dear  despite  was  brewing 

Against  his  honor'd  master  and  protector  : 

But  CARRYL,  young,  conceived  no  risk  accruing, 

Or  scorn'd  it  ;   for,  although  as  his  corrector 

He  had  the  man's  old  grudge  been  just  renewing, 

He  knew  his  enemy  to  be  no  Hector,  — 

(A  strange  phrase  by  the  by  !  for  HOMER'S  will  is 

To  make  a  bully  only  of  ACHILLES.) 


EPICURUS.  17 

XXX. 

And  here  I  would  remark,  (a  brief  digression,) 
What  I  have  elsewhere  briefly  said  in  prose,  — 
That  many  names  convey  a  false  impression, 
Whence  once  forgot  the  source  from  which  they  rose. 
We  make  a  paragon  (i)  by  some  expression, 
That  more  from  fantasy  than  reason  flows, 
Which  may  have  point  or  sound,  but  little  verity, 
And  fools  convey  the  falsehood  to  posterity. 

XXXI. 

Thus  EPICURE,  the  best,  save  one,  by  odds 
Of  all  the  sages(2),  has  his  name  ty'd  fast  to 
A  human  hog  !  and  one  that  should  by  rods 
Have  been  taught  decency,  a  knave,  and  ass  too, 

(1)  Parallel  ;  comparison,  (paragone,  Ital.).    The  proper  derivate 
sense  of  the  word,  though  I  know  no  English  authority  for  its  use 
in  this  acceptance.     The  received  meaning  of  the  verb,  to  paragon, 
is  to  compare,  to  parallel.     There  is  no  reason  why  the  signification 
of  the  noun  should  not  be  accordant. 

(2)  I  beg  it  may  not  be  understood,  from  what  is  here  said,  that 
I  am  an  admirer  of  the  doctrines  of  EPICURUS,  as  a  system  of 
morals,  or  even  of  philosophy.      Very  far  from  it.     I  consider 
the  philosophy  of  EPICURUS  as  dangerous,  if  on  no  other  grounds 
than  that  it  necessarily  tended  to  make  good  men  bad  citizens,  by 
withdrawing  them  from  active  life,  and  merging  their  duties,  as 
members  of  society,  in  the  selfish  consideration  of  virtue  studied 
and  practised  for  the  sole  delight  which  it  afforded  to  the  possessor. 
But  a  philosopher,  as  a  man,  is  no  more  to  be  judged  of  by  the  na- 
ture of  his  doctrines,  than  a  poet  by  the  subject  of  his  muse,  though 
the  world  is  constantly  doing  so,  with  both  the  one  and  the  other, 

2* 


18  DIOGENES. 

Is  rank'd  by  EPICTETUS  with  the  gods  !  (i) 
Both  lies  as  gross,  as  't  were  to  praise  Velasco, 
Where  tragic  verse  is  at  its  lowest  ebb, 
Or  make  a  man  of  sense  of SON  W-BB. 


However,  leaving  HECTOR,  EPICURUS, 

And  him,  the  lousy  sire  of  moral  cant, 

Whose  great  success  with  emperors  (2)  should  assure  us 

We  need  of  virtue  but  a  godly  rant, 

despite  of  experience,  which  derides  the  fallacy  of  such  decisions. 
The  philosopher  of  the  Garden  was  every  whit  as  virtuous  a 
man  as  the  leader  of  the  Academy,  while  his  tenets  (abstractly 
considered)  are  much  more  conspicuous  for  good  sense  than  those 
mystical  speculations,  which,  very  little  to  the  credit  of  mental 
independence,  have  divided,  with  the  more  reasonable  dreams  of 
the  stronger-minded  STACVRITE,  the  dominion  of  the  world  in 
metaphysics,  for  over  two  thousand  years. 

(i)  Namely,  DIOGENES  the  Cynic. 

(s)  Allusion  to  the  well  known  story  of  this  surly  hypocrite. 
The  son  of  PHILIP  asked  him,  what  he  should  do  to  pleasure  him. 
Stand  out  of  my  sunshine,  growled  the  dog  of  SINOPE  ;  and  ALEX- 
ANDER, like  a  greater  fool  and  greater  hypocrite,  made  this  com- 
ment for  the  benefit  of  his  courtiers  :  —  Were  I  not  ALEXANDER,  / 
could  wish  to  be  DIOGENES.  No  doubt,  both  thought  that  they  were 
making  fine  speeches;  yet  ALEXANDER  knew  that  DIOGENES  was 
driven  from  his  native  place  for  uttering  false  coin,  and  that  he  but 
affected  a  disdain  of  what  he  could  not  acquire,  and  DIOGENES  was 
conscious  that  ALEXANDER  would  have  thought  a  month  passed 
in  the  Granicus  scarcely  sufficient,  to  wash  himself  clean  of  even 
the  imagination  of  inhabiting  the  pen  of  the  pediculose  vagabond, 
who,  for  a  piece  of  buffoonery  acted  by  means  of  a  lantern,  has, 
like  too  many  other  knaves  and  fools,  come  down  to  posterity  a 


THE  PASSENGERS.  19 

Or  skill  to  sneer  with  unction,  to  secure  us 
A  fame  more  odorous  than  that  of  BRANT, 
Who  dying  chief  of  certain  Indian  bravos, 
A  fool  has  made  him  stink  in  two  octavos,  — 

XXXIII. 

Leaving  all  these,  who  now  are  dead  and  rotten, 
Until  the  Archangel's  awful  trump  shall  blow, 
To  renovate  them  and  their  deeds  forgotten, 
To  soar  sublime,  or  flutter  down  below,  — 
We  turn  to  him,  who,  being  our  last  begotten, 
Like  JOSEPH,  's  doorn'd  a  favor'd  child  to  grow. 
ARTHUR,  quite  sicken'd  with  the  wounded  eye, 
Turn'd  round  to  mark  what  other  sights  were  by. 


There  was  a  mother,  whom  three  skinny  girls 

Pinch'd  not  in  belly  like  the  two  in  Chaucer  (i)  ; 

A  coxcomb,  with  fair  hair  that  fell  in  curls, 

That  loung'd  and  languished  on  a  coil'd-up  hawser  ; 

A  half-pay  officer,  whom  pipes  and  purls 

Had  blown  up  like  a  sack,  or  something  coarser  ; 

A  courier  in  siesta  from  his  labor, 

His  cloak  around  him,  and  beside  his  sabre  ; 

man  of  wit  and  a  philosopher.     God  send,  to  all  such,  tubs  to  live 
in,  and  water  to  lap  with  the  hounds ! 

(i)  In  the  Tale  of  the  Nun's  Priest.    The  familiar  expression, 

"  And  pinch* d  her  belly  with  her  daughters  two," 
is  however  not  CHAUCER'S,  but  DRYDEN'S. 


20  THE  PRINCESSES. 

XXXV. 

Four  waiting-maids,  part  English  and  part  French, 
Of  whom  the  English  two  were  rather  pretty, 
The  third  a  fright,  the  last  a  sprightly  wench, 
With  saucy  eyes,  and  mouth  that  stamp'd  her  witty  ; 
Five  straight-limb 'd  lackeys  on  a  distant  bench, 
Who  smil'd  at  FELIX'  back,  and  talk'd  of  pity  ; 
And  last,  not  least,  three  special  groups,  with  which 
I  now  proceed  my  stanzas  to  enrich. 

XXXVI. 

First  come  two  princesses,  from  ancient  ROME  ; 

Of  person  plain  ;  a  mother  and  her  daughter. 

This,  sad  and  very  gentle  ;   for,  at  home, 

Affliction  and  a  pious  heart  had  taught  her 

Lessons  but  seldom  learn'd  near  PETER'S  dome  : 

So  mournful  and  so  meek,  you  would  have  thought  her 

The  spirit  of  the  Christian  faith  exil'd, 

And  grieving  for  the  shrines  she  'd  left  defil'd. 

XXXVII. 

The  mother,  much  more  cheerful,  yet  not  gay, 
Was  even  more  mild  and  humble  in  her  bearing. 
Ceaseless  good-humor  seem'd,  benign,  to  play 
About  her  rivell'd  lips,  yet  not  less  wearing 
The  seal  of  sense, — that,  at  a  later  day, 
When  better  known,  was  ARTHUR  heard  declaring, 
With  warmth,  how  he  should  like  to  call  her  Mother, 
Or  be  in  any  way  her  daughter's  brother. 


BIANCA  GAIOCORlL  21 

XXXVIII. 

For  them  had  ceas'd  to  bloom  the  rosy  hours, 
That  festive  summer  of  the  yet  green  heart, 
When  Love  bids  blossom  his  enchanted  bow'rs, 
To  charm  the  sense,  and  his  oft  fatal  dart, 
Its  venom'd  barb  conceal 'd,  enwreaths  with  flow'rs  ; 
Yet  in  their  train  had  Youth  and  Beauty  part  : 
O,  breathe  thy  wit  and  spirit  o'er  my  story, 
And  live  again,  BIANCA  GAIOCORE  ! 

XXXIX. 

Gentle  in  birth,  but  of  a  house  decay'd, 

BIANCA  was  their  dame  de  compagnie  ; 

Which  not  exactly  means  a  lady's  maid, 

But  something  more  refin'd,  though  much  less  free  ; 

One  by  whom  ev'ry  freak  must  be  obey'd, 

And  humble  as  an  humble  friend  should  be. 

The  ENGLISH  call  such  toady  and  load-eater (l). 

Lady-companion  is  a  term  much  neater. 

XL. 

Ah  !  wretched  and  unstaid,  that  state  indeed 
Which  rests  on  man's  mere  justice  and  humanity  ! 

(i)  A  word,  which,  though  in  reality  mere  cant,  has  become  by 
frequent  usage  in  the  polite  world  somewhat  established.  We  find 
it  used  by  Lady  M.  W.  MONTAGU,  in  her  Epistle  from  Pope  to 
Bolingbroke : 

"  Your  poor  toad-eater,  I  around  me  scatter 

My  scurril  jests,  and  gaping  crowds  bespatter." 
Whether  it  have  any  earlier  authority,  I  am  as  yet  ignorant. 


22  BIANCA. 

(This  make  your  public,  as  your  private  creed.) 

To  brook  caprice,  to  minister  to  vanity, 

To  flatter  foibles,  and  the  passions  feed, 

To  fill  the  dull  void  of  the  mind's  inanity, 

The  spirit's  will  subdu'd  to  serve  the  body's,  — 

Behold  the  courtier's  fate,  and  simple  toady's  ! 

XLI. 

Hence  learns  the  poor  companion  all  that's  mean, — 
Her  life  a  lie,  herself  the  worst  of  slaves. 
But  there  be  some  exceptions,  far  between, 
Where  the  high  dame  no  sycophancy  craves. 
Here  conscience  rules  and  gratitude  is  seen, 
And  mutual  love  from  all  debasement  saves. 
Such  lot  BIANCA  found  ;  HEAV'N  seem'd  to  bless  her, 
That  serv'd  an  angel  like  the  principessa. 

XLII. 

Just  seventeen,  but  yet  more  fully  grown 
Than  maids  that  blossom  under  Northern  skies, 
BIANCA  was  the  merriest  creature  known, 
And  all  her  soul  stood  sparkling  in  her  eyes  ; 
Vivacious,  with  a  frankness  quite  her  own, 
And  ready  wit  that  took  you  by  surprise  ; 
Yet  rich  withal  in  reason,  —  rarest  dower 
Of  woman,  when  her  beauty  is  in  flower. 

XLII1. 

Not  hers  the  form  a  poet  dreams  or  feigns,  — 
Too  much  the  Juno  for  the  height  of  Venus  ; 


BIANCA.  23 

I  mean,  she  was  too  fat  about  the  reins  : 
A  sort  of  figure  much  more  like  to  wean  us 
From  poetry,  than  prompt  poetic  strains  : 
And  yet  it  is  not  such  a  shape  can  screen  us 
From  eyes  like  hers,  that  would  not  let  you  spare 
A  thought  on  features  which  she  had  elsewhere. 

XLIV. 

Fringing  a  forehead  that  was  all  divine, 

Perfect  in  breadth  and  height,  well-form'd,  and  fair, 

Of  sense  and  soul  the  unmistaken  shrine, 

Two  brows  were  sweetly  set,  of  beauty  rare. 

So  gently  sloping  their  divergent  line, 

So  smooth,  so  fine,  so  close,  their  dark-brown  hair, 

You  long'd  to  let  your  fingers  o'er  them  creep, 

And  could  have  kiss'd  them,  —  would  the  eyes  but  sleep. 

XLV. 

Such  brows  the  GREEKS  their  chisell'd  gods  have  given, 
So  straight,  so  long,  with  just  such  space  between. 
But  what  shall  parallel  the  orbs  of  Heaven 
That  flashing  'neath  their  pencill'd  lines  were  seen  ? 
More  brilliant  than  the  golden  star  that  's  driven 
Down  the  slant  sky  before  the  crescent-queen. 
Yes,  like  indeed  that  star's,  their  tender  light 
If  bright  was  soft,  yet  not  more  soft  than  bright. 

XLVI. 

Distant,  their  hue  seem'd  black  ;  when  near  appearing, 
You  found  them  blue,  or  gray,  or  both  combin'd  ; 


24  BIANCA. 

And,  thus  beheld,  they  were  far  more  endearing,  — » 
So  large  !  so  full  of  soul  !  so  shrewd,  yet  kind  ! 
Her  mouth  was  small,  and  beautiful,  and  wearing, 
Like  her  fine  brow,  the  impress  of  much  mind. 
Its  only  fault,  it  made  her  look  too  knowing, 
Too  much  experienc'd  for  a  girl  that  's  growing. 

XLVII. 

I  pass  her  nose  and  teeth,  which  were  not  good  ; 
The  first  too  short  and  thick,  the  latter  common. 
Her  hair  was  nearly  black,  and  shone  as  should, 
When  clean,  that  chiefest  ornament  of  woman. 
Her  cheek  not  fair,  but  through  it  the  rich  blood 
Ran  visible,  nor  stay'd  for  aught  to  summon 
Its  current  for  a  moment  there,  then  vanish, 
But  glow'd  in  one  bright  spot,  which  nought  could  banish. 

XLVIII. 

So  looks,  when  ripe,  the  sun-dy'd  apricot, 
So  glows  the  twilight  of  a  southern  clime. 
BIANCA'S  moral  traits  I  pass  them  not, 
But  only  keep  them  for  a  happier  time. 
Yet  must  I  name  one  vice  the  maid  had  got, 
Not  very  rare  for  beauties  in  their  prime  ; 
Her  voice,  though  polish'd  as  became  her  station, 
Was  spoil'd,  in  some  degree,  by  affectation. 

XLIX. 

The  princesses,  besides  this  merry  lady, 
Had  with  them  too  their  travelling  physician, 


THE  ENGLISH  PARTY.  25 

Three  seasons  of  whose  life  had  pass'd  already, 
Yet  left  him  ruddy,  and  in  good  condition  ; 
Courteous,  urbane,  and  of  a  mien  most  steady, 
A  novel-reader,  and  a  good  musician. 
A  chevalier  he  was,  hatch'd  in  COLONNA  (i), 
And  wore  the  riband  of  the  cross  of  honor. 


The  second  group  in  persons  number'd  seven  : 
An  English  couple,  out  upon  their  tour  ; 
Three  little  boys,  —  the  eldest,  say  eleven  ; 
A  lovely  girl,  of  sixteen  years  or  more, 
With  eyes  far  bluer  than  her  native  heaven,  — 
Blue  as  our  own  when  ether  is  most  pure  ; 
And  last,  that  with  this  group  unites,  yet  clashes, 
A  Prussian  nobleman  with  white  mustashes. 


LL 


The  marry  !d  pair,  and  parents  of  the  boys, 
Were  such  as  you  may  meet  in  every  crowd  ; 
The  father  gross,  and  loving  jokes  and  noise, 
Vulgar  in  soul  and  body,  coarse,  and  loud, 
Affecting  wisdom,  yet  engross'd  by  toys, 
Unletter'd,  dull,  but  of  his  parts  so  proud, 
You  could  not  start  a  theme  but  started  too 
His  tongue  to  teach  you  all  its  master  knew. 

(i)  In  the  Campagna,  near  ROME,  and  therefore  a  subject  of  the 
Pope's. 

3 


26  CICERO  PEBBLE. 


LII. 


His  vanity  so  little,  yet  so  vast, 

It  grasp'd  at  all  things,  and  found  nothing  vile. 

Hence  rogues  their  hackney  made  of  him,  and  cast 

Such  burdens  on  him  as  made  others  smile. 

The  record  of  his  offices  would  last 

Too  long  by  far,  and  not  be  worth  my  while. 

He  was,  besides  being  preacher  of  sobriety, 

Historian  to  a  Sabbath  School  Society. 

LIII. 

He  gather'd,  too,  subscriptions  for  the  oppress'd 
Black  people  in  the  land  that  once  was  BRITAIN'S, 
And  sundry  knicknacks  for  poor  women  bless'd 
With  frequent  calls  for  socks  and  children's  mittens  ; 
He  taught  a  cure  for  bites  of  dogs,  and  guess'd 
The  same  would  heal  old  scratches  made  by  kittens  ; 
He  wrote  a  Wordsworth-ballad  too,  a  wonder, 
To  show  that  HEROD  was  afraid  of  thunder. 

LIV. 

In  the  last  Exhibition  of  Design  (l) 

One  ass's  head,  'mong  others,  caught  my  eye,  — 

So  like  in  visage  to  this  man  of  mine, 

I  could  have  sworn  that  PEBBLE'S  self  was  by  : 

(i)  The  yearly  Exhibition  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  in 
NEW  YORK.     The  stanza  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1839. 


MRS.  PEBBLE.  27 

A  brow  which  I  should  rail  to  call  divine, 
Blue  eyes  stark-mad,  and  staring  at  the  sky  : 
An  old  Narcissus,  in  poetic  rage, 
It  seem'd,  and  was  well-color'd,  done  by  P — E. 


LV. 


It  had  too  PEBBLE'S  nose,  turn'd  up  in  scorn, 

And  PEBBLE'S  mouth,  and  PEBBLE'S  snuff-brown  suit, 

A  broach  in  breast,  as  PEBBLE  might  have  worn, 

A  pen  in  hand,  as  Dante  holds  a  lute. 

But  this  was  comely,  and,  though  gentle-born, 

PEBBLE  in  mien  was  something  of  a  brute. 

But  P — E  can  flatter  ;  and  the  fool  that  paid  him 

May  be  a  dirtier  fellow  than  he  's  made  him. 

LVI. 

Howe'er,  my  copy  of  this  bard  in  brown 
Was  quite  an  ass,  and  took  much  pains  to  show  it. 
No  wonder  then  his  lady,  bred  in  town,' 
Appear'd,  by  certain  overt  acts,  to  know  it. 
She  had  been  lovely  ;  but,  when  youth  is  flown, 
Love  drops  his  blind,  as  needs  to  sing  no  poet  ; 
And  Mrs.  PEBBLE,  being  no  more  green, 
Made  up  in  flesh  and  blood  for  grace  of  mien. 

LVII. 

Yet  was  she  handsome.     Few  at  thirty-four 
Had  features  that  could  easier  wake  desire. 


28  CONSTANCE  VERE. 

Her  large  blue  sleepy  eyes  at  will  could  pour 
A  flood  of  light  that  set  your  brain  on  fire  ; 
Her  small  red  pouting  lip  for  ever  wore 
A  look  that  said,  Come,  press  me  till  you  tire. 
She  might  have  sat  to  sculptors  for  JOVE'S  sister, 
As  when  IXION  kiss'd,  or  would  have  kiss'd  her. 

LVI1I. 

And  yet  it  would  have  puzzled  all  their  hive 

To  give  her  cheek's  soft  skin  and  pure  carnation  ; 

Beauties  which  in  an  English  dame  survive 

Longer  than  with  the  women  of  our  nation. 

He  might  have  done  it,  he  (i),  who  keeps  alive 

CUPID'S  mama  in  such  a  situation,  — 

I  mean  in  FLORENCE,  where  she  's  seen,  quite  shocking, 

Without  a  shawl,  or  shift,  or  drawers,  or  stocking  ! 

LIX. 

The  power  of  Virtue  governs  even  the  vile, 
At  distance  reverenc'd,  if  approach 'd  not  near. 
E'en  rakes  would  turn  from  Mrs.  PEBBLE'S  smile 
And  Juno  eyes,  to  gaze  upon  the  clear 
Pure  Pjrehead,  and  the  orbs  where  shone  no  guile, 
And  lips,  of  her  young  sister,  CONSTANCE  VERB  ; 
Who  was  the  maid,  "  of  sixteen  years  or  more," 
I  've  mention'd  in  a  stanza  sung  before. 

(i)  TITIAN.     The  allusion  is  to  the  two  paintings  in  the  Tribune. 


CONSTANCE  VERE.  29 


LX. 


Sweet  CONSTANCE  VERE  !  when  thou  wast  seated  by, 

Vain  were  thy  sister's  ripe  and  practis'd  charms  : 

No  libertine  the  PRUSSIAN,  and  his  eye 

Was  faithful  to  its  trust,  though  Reason's  arms 

Had  oft  been  shiver'd  by  the  matron's  sigh. 

Now  Jealousy  her  haughty  breast  alarms, 

And  her  large  eyes  grow  dark  with  threaten'd  storm 

To  Baron  MAXIMILIAN  MIRTENBAUM. 


LXI. 


Sweet  CONSTANCE  VERE  !    Cold  were  indeed  the  heart 

That  could  unmov'd  her  loveliness  behold  ! 

A  creature  yet  unstain'd  by  guile  or  art, 

And  pure  as  is  the  thrice  refined  gold  ; 

So  seraph-like  it  seem'd  earth  had  no  part 

In  her,  but  all  was  of  a  brighter  mould  ; 

As  pure  as  EVE,  while  yet  she  lay  alone, 

And  ADAM,  sin,  and  sorrow,  were  unknown. 

LXII. 

Her  eyes,  as  I  have  sung,  were  deeply  blue,  — 
Shap'd  like  an  almond,  and  of  clearness  rare. 
The  lashes  long  curl'd  upward,  and  in  hue 
Were  darker  than  her  brows  and  clustering  hair. 
But  not  the  orbs'  mere  beauty  chain'd  your  view  ; 
It  was  the  spirit  that  was  radiant  there  ; 
A  spirit  sweet  yet  sad,  resolv'd  but  shy, 
That  aw'd  yet  touch'd  you,  though  you  knew  not  whv. 
3* 


30  CONSTANCE  VERE. 

LX1II. 

Than  her  white  brow  was  lovelier  never  seen,  — 

BIANCA'S  own  not  fuller  of  expression. 

Her  nose  not  large,  yet  high  ;  by  which  I  mean 

It  was  not  of  the  order  known  as  Grecian. 

More  fine  than  beautiful,  it  gave  her  rnien 

A  dignity  that  was  its  just  completion. 

In  short,  it  was  uncommon,  but  not  queer, 

And  look'd  quite  handsome  upon  CONSTANCE  VERE. 

LXIV. 

Not  the  sun's  dying  rays  on  Alpine  snow, 

Nor  petals  of  the  rose  ere  fully  blown, 

Are  lovelier,  in  their  evanescent  glow, 

Than  the  rich  hue  in  CONSTANCE'  lips  that  shone  ; 

The  upper  curv'd  like  CUPID'S  fabled  bow  ; 

The  under  might  have  seem'd  his  mother's  own, 

But  that  it  had  a  virginal  simplicity 

That  would  not  suit  the  queen  of  impudicity. 

LXV. 

Within  this  rosy  heaven,  where  sat  Persuasion, 
And  Love,  grown  modest,  with  the  Graces  play'd, 

A  double  row of  pearls  (which  suit  the  occasion 

Of  hackney  bards  for  every  sunburnt  maid) 

I  will  not  add  ;   I  rather  make  invasion 

Into  the  Muses'  fields,  and  call  in  aid 

Some  simile,  whose  yet  untarnish'd  brightness 

May  evidence  her  teeth's  transcendent  whiteness. 


CONSTANCE   VERB.  31 

LXV1. 

What  say  you  to  the  grains  of  Indian  corn, 
(I  mean  that  kind  whose  fruit  is  silver-white,) 
Before  the  stock  has  long  its  honors  worn  ? 
So  close  like  them,  so  milk-like,  yet  so  bright. 
You  could  have  kiss'd  them  every  one  in  turn, 
And  saw  the  lips  disclose  them  with  delight. 
(A  trope  which  must,  I  think,  procure  me  praise 
With  lovers  of  the  esculent,  green  rnaize.) 

LXVII. 

Two  rows  like  these,  well  set,  and  all  in  place, 
(So  fitted  to  the  mouth,  and  it  to  them, 
That,  when  a  smile  the  rosy  lips  would  grace, 
It  show'd  them  all,  each  perfect  as  a  gem,) 
Gave  such  bewitching  beauty  to  her  face, 
It  would  have  charm'd  away  a  stoic's  phlegm. 
But,  even  there,  't  was  that  you  saw  no  guile, 
Enchain'd  you  more  than  lips,  or  teeth,  or  smile. 

LXVIII. 

White  as  the  milk  from  JUNO'S  breast  that  flow'd, 
And,  fallen  to  earth,  new-dy'd  the  yellow  flower,  (i) 

(i)  The  lily ;  which,  according  to  the  fable,  was  of  the  color  of  the 
crocus,  till  some  of  the  milk  of  JDNO  (when  the  infant  HERCULES 
was,  by  hia  father,  put  to  his  stepdame's  breast,  while  she  slept) 
fell  upon  it,  as  another  portion  took  its  course  through  the  heavens, 
and  formed  the  Milky  Way. 

I  should  ask  pardon  of  scholars  for  venturing  to  recount  this  fa- 
ble, were  not  my  book  intended  for  all  classes  of  readers. 


32  CONSTANCE  VERE. 

What  time,  translated  to  his  sire's  abode, 
The  semi-mortal  babe,  in  JOVE'S  bright  bower, 
Drew  from  the  sleeping  queen  immortal  food, 
The  soft  young  cheek  of  CONSTANCE  had  no  power 
To  kindle  passion,  but  it  woke  a  feeling 
Far  better,  by  its  sweet  yet  sad  revealing. 

LXIX. 

For  there  at  times  a  momentary  flush, 
Faint  as,  at  early  dawn,  the  rosy  streak 
That  ushers  in  a  summer's  sun,  would  rush 
All  suddenly,  and  dye  one  single  cheek, 
Without  a  mental  cause  for  such  a  blush 
In  flatter'd  pride  or  irritated  pique  ; 
Then  gradually  the  vermil  glow,  thus  spread, 
Would  settle  in  one  spot  intensely  red. 

LXX. 

This  too,  by  slow  degrees,  would  pass  away, 
As  fade  the  colors  of  a  setting  sun  : 
And  as  you  mark'd  these  symptoms  of  decay, 
And  saw  her  pensive  and  subdu'd,  like  one 
That  mourn'd  her  early  doom,  yet  seem'd  to  say, 
Not  mine,  O  Father,  but  thy  will  be  done  I 
You  felt  a  pity  mix'd  with  admiration, 
That  rais'd  you  in  your  proper  estimation. 

LXXI. 

For  Pity  is  GOD'S  daughter  ;  and  who  feels 
For  human  sorrow  shares  the  soul  divine. 


CONSTANCE  VERE.  33 

When  o'er  the  mind  the  holy  influence  steals, 
And  the  thoughts  all  to  gentleness  incline, 
The  festering  wound  of  disappointment  heals, 
And  grosser  feelings,  for  the  time,  refine  ; 
And,  loving  those  to  whom  the  heart  thus  leans, 
We  love  ourselves,  made  purer  by  their  means. 

LXX1I. 

As,  when  the  Archangel  shot  the  trackless  space, 
The  clouds  dispers'd,  and  heaven  became  serene, 
What  time  he  sought  for  Discord,  and  her  place 
Found  where  he  deem'd  the  fiend  had  never  been,  (l) 
(Which  shows  that  MICHAEL,  wise  in  realms  of  grace, 
Was  in  this  sublunary  world  but  green,) 
Wherever  CONSTANCE  turn'd  her  heavenly  features, 
She  calm'd  men's  hearts  and  purify'd  their  natures. 

LXXIII. 

"O  days  of  innocence,  long  since  departed  ! 
When  I  was  happy,  for  I  knew  content  ; 
When  pious,  docile,  chaste,  and  gentle-hearted, 
I  never  dreamt  what  sin  or  passion  meant  ; 
And  every  night  my  lips  with  pray'r  were  parted, 
As  low  beside  my  little  couch  I  bent. 

(i)  See  in  the  Orlando,  (Canto  xiv.  st.  77,  and  following,)  the 
expedition  of  MICHAEL  in  search  of  Discord  and  Silence:  — 
"  Dovunque  drizza  Michel  angel  1'  ale, 

Fuggon  le  rntbi,  e  torna  il  del  sereno,  ec." 

The  innocent  seraph  found  Discord,  where  he  looked  for  Silence, 
—  in  a  Monastery. 


34  CONSTANCE  VERE. 

Not  then  I  sorrow'd,  though  the  eyes  might  weep, 
Nor  came  the  devil  near  me  save  in  sleep. 

LXXIV. 

"Then  was  the  pillow  rarely  press'd  in  vain  ; 
Then  sprang  the  heart  to  meet  returning  light  ; 
Conscience  had  never  rack'd  the  throbbing  brain, 
Nor  weary 'd  spirits  made  the  sun  less  bright  ; 
Duties  were  easy,  brief  was  every  pain, 
Disgust  unknown  where  all  things  brought  delight. 
What  would  I  give,  to  be  as  she  is  now, 
That  fair  young  creature  with  the  spotless  brow  !  " 

LXXV. 

Thus  CARRYL  thought,  (as  we  in  turn  might  do,) 

And  many  a  smother'd  sigh  convuls'd  his  breast, 

While  linger'd  on  the  maid  his  raptur'd  view, 

And  drank  in  all  that  lovely  face  exprest. 

But,  leaving  him  awhile,  we  must  pursue 

Our  rudely  pencill'd  sketches  of  the  rest,  — 

And  first,  that  CONSTANCE  VERB  may  stand  complete, 

Delineate  her  form  from  throat  to  feet. 

LXXVI. 

Her  stature  was  below  the  middle  height,  — 
And  delicately  slender,  but  not  thin, 
Her  figure  ;  for  her  bust  was  full,  though  slight, 
And  full  her  graceful  throat  and  rounded  chin. 


THE  TOURISTS.  35 

Her  taper  hands  were  on  the  outside  white, 
But  tinted  like  the  ocean  shell  within  ; 
And  the  small  foot  beneath  her  garment's  fold 
Look'd  perfect  as  if  just  come  from  a  mould. 

LXXVII. 

But,  more  than  all,  she  had  that  rare  attraction, 

Better  than  beauty,  to  our  hero's  mind, 

An  air  that  show'd  her  breeding  and  extraction 

Were  nothing  of  the  ordinary  kind. 

From  all  her  person,  —  in  its  very  action,  — 

Or  rather,  its  repose,  — this  lustre  shin'd, 

And  with  the  soul  that  hallow'd  her  blue  eyes, 

Made  reverent  even  the  old,  and  charm'd  the  wise. 

LXXVIII. 

Here  leave  we  for  the  present  CONSTANCE  VERE. 
The  Baron  MAXIMILIAN,  who  is  reading 
A  song  of  PEBBLE'S  with  grimaces  queer, 
While  hums  the  poet,  with  his  native  breeding, 
The  tune  (Bold  Thompson)  in  his  wondering  ear. 
We  leave  him  to  this  intellectual  feeding, 
Till  more  at  ease  (for  now  we  must  move  faster) 
We  bring  him  in  with  FELIX  and  his  master. 

LXXIX. 

Save  the  three  boys,  each  member  of  this  set 
A  different  motive  led  upon  their  tour  : 
CONSTANCE  to  meet  whatever  might  be  met 
Of  good  unknown  ;    alas  !  how  very  sure 


36  THE   SAVOYARD. 

To  find  that  sin  and  sorrow,  toil  and  fret, 
Are  everywhere  the  lot  of  rich  and  poor  ; 
Her  sister  to  make  conquests,  I  suppose. 
The  Baron's  motive  Heaven  only  knows  ! 

LXXX. 

PEBBLE  himself,  like  half  the  people  there, 
The  same  wise  motive  that  has  lately  driven 
So  many  thousands  heat  and  dust  to  bear, 
To  watch  a  British  steamer  leave  the  haven  ; 
The  same  which  makes  their  kindred  fools  repair 
To  NIBLO'S  alleys  every  summer  even, 
To  see  a  foreign  mountebank  aspire 
To  tread  a  hawser  with  her  tail  on  fire. 

LXXXI. 

The  third  group,  and  the  last  I  have  to  mention, 

Consists  of  two,  a  maiden  and  her  sire. 

In  the  Fourth  Canto  it  is  rny  intention 

To  give  their  history,  which  will  not  tire. 

At  present  I  shall  show  that  no  invention 

Of  poet  or  of  painter  could  aspire 

To  gift  a  pair,  in  picture  or  in  song, 

With  such  rare  graces  as  to  these  belong. 

LXXXII. 

For  no  wild  fiction  is  thy  worth,  ESTELLE  ! 
Nor  yet  thy  loveliness  beyond  compare  ; 
And  he  of  whose  kind  soul  I  have  to  tell, 
That  aged  man  who  sits  beside  thee  there, 


THE  HERB  OF  VIRTUE.  37 

His  image  too  is  mirror'd  in  that  well 
Whose  waters  seldom  reach  this  upper  air. 
The  good  DESSANTI  was  her  sire  by  option  ; 
ESTELLE  was  but  the  child  of  his  adoption. 

LXXXIII. 

Her  origin  involves  a  brief  romance,  — 
A  tale  of  strange  disaster,  tears,  and  blood. 
Suffice  it  for  the  present,  that  in  FRANCE 
She  drew  her  earliest  breath  ;  but  he  who  stood 
Her  friend  and  saviour  in  her  worst  mischance. 
And  since  the  best  of  fathers,  he,  the  good 
DESSANTI,  was  by  birth  a  SAVOYARD, 
And  liv'd  at  CHAMBERY  with  this  his  ward. 

LXXXIV. 

Not  always  in  this  wintry  world  of  ours 
Is  virtue  blighted  by  incessant  frost. 
Upon  its  delicate  stem  ofttimes  sweet  flow'rs 
Grow  clustering  ;   and  who  plants  it  finds  his  cost 
More  than  repaid,  when,  after  years,  it  tow'rs 
High  as  a  palm,  and,  weary  ^  worn,  and  tost, 
On  the  world's  scene,  he  finds  beneath  its  shade 
The  sweetest  shelter  his  own  hands  have  made. 

LXXXV. 

When,  one  by  one,  the  good  man's  children  pin'd 
With  slow  disease,  and  to  their  triple  grave 
4 


38  DESSANTI. 

The  care-worn  mother  in  her  turn  consign 'd 

Slept  the  long  sleep,  it  seem'd  as  HEAVEN  to  save 

The  lone  survivor  to  his  love  assign'd 

That  sweet  ESTELLE.     Now  on  life's  ebbing  wave 

His  bark  swam  buoyant,  and  his  age  declining 

Was  even  more  bright  than  when  its  noon  was  shining. 

LXXXVI. 

We  hear  sometimes  of  apostolic  faces, 
Such  as  poetic  dreams  the  saints  have  given 
Who  taught,  in  other  times  and  other  places, 
Gentile  and  Jew  the  surest  route  to  HEAVEN, 
But  such  as  (in  this  world  so  little  grace  is) 
You  now  will  hardly  find  one  time  in  seven, 
Nay,  in  the  modern  gallery  of  teachers, 
Seven  times  in  seventy  hundred  thousand  preachers. 

LXXXVII. 

What  wonder  ?  since  not  any  where  we  see 
The  meekness,  charity,  and  self-denial 
Taught  by  the  Lamb  who  bled  upon  the  tree, 
And  practis'd  by  the  Saints  when  put  to  trial  ; 
But  now  the  reverend  race  in  nought  agree 
Save  vanity,  and  pouring,  from  the  vial 
St.  JOHN  dreamt  of,  the  hailstones  of  damnation  (i) 
On  all  who  take  their  own  road  to  salvation. 

(i)  "And  the  seventh  angel  poured  out  his  vial  into  the  air,"  etc. 
"  And  there  fell  upon  men  a  great  hail  out  of  heaven  ;  every  stone 
about  the  weight  of  a  talent.  And  men  blasphemed  God  because 
of  the  plague  of  the  hail ;  for  the  plague  thereof  was  exceeding 
great."  Revelations,  xvi.  17  and  21. 


DESSANTI.  39 

LXXXVIII. 

But  on  his  reverend  brow  DESSANTI  bore 
The  impress  of  a  large  and  generous  mind. 
Its  high  bald  top  the  sign  celestial  wore 
Of  the  strong  love  that  knits  man  to  his  kind,  (i) 
Down  to  his  shoulders  hung  his  tresses  hoar  ; 
And  his  large  open  blue  eye  sweetly  shin'd 
With  the  pure  spirit,  serious  yet  benign, 
Taught  by  the  Virgin's  blessed  son  divine. 

LXXXIX. 

Most  happily  the  mouth  match'd  with  these  features  ; 

For  its  unfaded  fullness  plainly  told, 

DESSANTI  had  not  liv'd,  as  baser  natures, 

In  sensual  idleness,  and  now  when  old 

Enjoy 'd  those  gifts,  (of  all,  that  to  his  creatures 

The  ALL-GOOD  hath  given,  the  best,  —  before  fine  gold 

Or  smiles  of  kings,)  sound  health  and  conscience  clean, 

That  color  like  the  rose  life's  dreariest  scene. 


Travel  you  might  from  one  pole  to  the  other, 
From  the  sun's  setting  even  to  his  rise, 

(i)  What  phrenology  has  termed  the  Organ  of  Benevolence. 
Whether  it  be  the  sign  of  the  presence  of  such  an  organ,  or  there 
be  of  the  brain  no  such  portion  devoted  to  this  particular  senti- 
ment, it  is  certain  that  usually  in  persons  of  a  benevolent  turn  of 
mind,  the  middle  of  the  highest  part  of  the  forehead  is  elevated  and 
finely  rounded. 


40  DESSANTI. 

Without  perhaps  once  meeting  such  another 
Nose  as  the  one  between  DESSANTI'S  eyes  ; 
Except  in  FLORENCE,  ROME,  or  in  the  mother 
Of  ancient  art,  or  near  where  VIRGIL  lies  ; 
Such  noses  being  often  cut  in  stone, 
But  rarely  met  of  merely  flesh  and  bone. 

XCI. 

The  rare  perfection  of  its  outer  line 
(Which  straight  and  even  from  the  brow  descended) 
Gave  to  the  face  a  beauty  quite  divine, 
And  even  a  grandeur  that  superbly  blended 
With  the  magnificent  brow,  and  with  the  fine 
Large  eyes  and  silver  hair  ;  a  whole  so  splendid, 
It  wanted  but  the  beard  that  suits  a  saint 
To  make  look  dim  the  best  e'er  done  in  paint. 

XCII. 

His  height  six  feet,  his  fine  form  still  unbent, 
His  motion  firm,  and  dignify 'd,  and  slow, 
The  majesty  that  with  his  sweet  smile  blent,  — 
He  look'd  a  king,  or  one  who  should  be  so  ; 
For  not  to  kings  has  Nature  always  lent 
Regality  of  make  or  mien  I  trow, 
And  one  fine  fellow,  trimly  set  and  jointed, 
Is  worth  a  dozen  of  the  Lord's  anointed. 

XC1II. 

ESTELLE  .  .  .     Thou  sweetest  flower  that  ever  grew 
In  the  world's  waste,  man's  desolate  heart  to  cheer  ! 


ESTELLE,  41 

Ah,  could  I  sing  thy  worth  with  rapture  due, 
That  all  good  men  the  unflatter'd  truth  might  hear  ! 
For  thou,  sweet  spirit,  wert  of  the  immortal  few 
Without  whose  loveliness  this  life  were  drear  ; 
Since,  with  thy  sex's  virtues,  in  thee  shone 
Whate'er  exalts  and  dignifies  our  own  ! 

XCIV. 

ESTELLE,  who  did  in  moral  growth  surpass 
All  of  her  sex  that  CARRYL  yet  had  seen, 
Was  taller  too  in  person  than  the  mass 
Of  women,  and  in  looks  a  very  queen. 
'T  was  strange  indeed  how  very  like  she  was 
The  SAVOYARD  in  majesty  of  mien  ; 
By  breeding  or  example  taught,  or  both  ; 
But  more,  I  think,  it  was  of  native  growth. 

XCV. 

Authority,  the  habit  of  command, 
The  meeting  everywhere  with  veneration, 
The  conscience  that  no  cradle  irt  the  land 
Is  loftier  than  our  own,  this  pride  of  station 
Gives  to  the  mien  an  awe  that  few  withstand,  (l) 
There  is  besides  a  grandeur  education, 
When  large,  and  acting  on  a  liberal  nature, 
Stamps  inefFaceably  on  every  feature. 

(i)  It  is  partly  this  circumstance,  perhaps,  which,  in  a  less  de- 
gree, gives  the  gentility  of  air  that  characterizes  the  women  of  the 
UNITED  STATES  above  all  others  in  the  world.  The  freedom  of  the 
government,  the  want  of  acknowledged  social  distinctions,  aid  the 

4* 


42  THE  AIR  OF  DISTINCTION". 


XCVI. 

But  there  is  yet  a  pride  of  mien,  the  dower 

Of  nature.     Not  confin'd  to  gentle  birth, 

It  is  not  always  found  with  rank  or  power, 

But  dignifies  at  times  the  sons  of  earth. 

Then  is  the  well-turn'd  figure  seen  to  tower, 

And  the  high  head  looks  godlike.    But  when  worth 

Of  soul  is  added,  and  the  grace  of  breeding, 

You  have  a  majesty  of  port  exceeding 

influence  of  the  brilliant  climate,  and  are  fast  producing  such  loyeli- 
ness  as  will  one  day  rival,  if  it  do  not  even  now,  the  boasted  models 
of  GREECE.*  The  women  of  the  UNITED  STATES  are  already  uni- 
versally allowed  to  be  the  prettiest  in  the  world.  They  are  more. 
Foreigners  see  but  the  surface  of  society,  in  the  little  time  they  are 
with  us,  and  generally  it  is  with  the  wealthier,  more  fashionable, 
and  politer  class  they  are  familiar;  but  it  is  in  the  inferior  and  mid- 
dle grades  of  life  that  the  great  superiority  in  feminine  beauty  of 
AMERICA  over  all  other  countries  is  to  be  found.  Distinguished  by 
an  exceeding  gracefulness  of  person,  by  a  rare  perfection  of  feature, 
by  fine  and  lustrous  hair,  dressed  with  peculiar  taste,  and  by  a  step 
that  almost  rivals  the  gait  of  the  women  of  SPAIN,  the  American 
grisette  is  born  the  lady  ;  it  is  only  her  conversation  and  her  man- 
ners that  would  tell  you  she  is  not  so  bred.  The  most  beautiful  face  I 
have  ever  seen  belonged  to  a  market  girl  of  PERUGIA  in  ITALY,  the 
finest  form  was  that  of  a  servant-maid  at  PAU  in  FRANCE  (the  birth- 
place, by  the  by,  of  that  connaisseur  in  women,  the  fourth  and  great 
HENRY)  ;  but  for  the  greatest  number  of  merely  personal  charms 
united,  figure,  feature,  grace,  expression,  and  in  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  persons,  commend  me  to  the  matchless  maids  of  AMERICA. 

*  It  is  remarkable  that  the  female  children  born  in  AMERICA  of  Irish  emi- 
grants (who  are  almost  invariably,  in  respect  of  features,  person,  mien,  and 
carriage,  grossly  vulgar  and  ill-favored,  to  an  extent  that  to  the  native  popula- 
tion has  something  in  it  ludicrous  and  extravagant)  grow  up  handsome,  well- 
formed,  and  graceful,  and  conspicuous,  frequently  in  no  little  degree,  for  that 
very  air  of  which  we  speak  above. 


ESTELLE.  43 

XCVII. 

All  that  the  ermin'd  robe  or  crown  of  gold 
Confers  on  monarchs  or  their  titled  train. 
And  such  did  CARRYL  in  ESTELLE  behold  : 
A  dignity  of  one  not  proud  or  vain, 
(Though  spirited,  the  maid  was  never  bold, 
And  Reason  more  than  Fancy  sway'd  her  brain,) 
But  one  whose  soul,  undimm'd  by  guilt  or  shame, 
Made  even  more  bright  the  vase  where  burn'd  its  flame. 

XCVIII. 

Straight  as  the  nut-tree  which  our  forests  bear, 
And  rounded  as  its  trunk  her  delicate  waist, 
Her  form,  in  symmetry,  might  well  compare 
With  any  model  of  Hellenic  taste. 
Not  that  sweet  figure,  of  expression  rare, 
Wrought  by  CANOVA,  and  in  FORLI  plac'd, 
That  sportive  rests  amid  the  dance's  whirl,  (i) 
In  gracefulness  might  match  my  orphan  girl. 

XCIX. 

Her  taper  limbs,  the  shoulders'  matchless  fall, 
The  hollow  back,  and  high  expanded  chest, 


(i)  That  one  of  the  three  famous  dancing  girls  which  was  made 
for  MANZONI,  who  removed  it  to  FORLI.  The  reader  may  see  an 
elegant  engraving  of  it,  in  the  first  volume  of  a  work  published  in 
London  in  1832,  entitled  Illustrations  of  Modern  Sculpture. 


44  ESTELLE. 

Her  feet  and  hands,  so  narrow,  smooth,  and  small, 
The  space  'twixt  either  round,  just-budding  breast, 
The  throat,  the  swelling  loins,  —  't  was  perfect  all  ! 
Nor  could  the  modest  gown  or  shawl  divest 
Those  lirnbs  of  grace,  or  make  one  beauty  dim, 
Where  all  was  faultless,  body,  motion,  limb. 


C. 


Lovely  her  face,  as  ever  poet  dream'd, 
With  even  brow,  and  large  black  eyes  whose  fire 
Was  temper'd  with  a  seriousness  that  seem'd 
Beyond  her  years,  —  well  fitted  to  inspire 
Deep  veneration  ;  yet  such  beauty  gleam'd 
Therewith  as  made  your  heart  beat  thick  :  Desire, 
Unhooded,  shook  his  pinions,  to  sink  check'd, 
Aw'd  by  a  mien  that  angels  might  affect. 


CI. 


The  heavy  lids  that  canopy'd  those  eyes 

Were  like  the  waning  moon,  and,  when  they  fell, 

You  scarcely  wish'd  to  see  their  broad  arch  rise 

From  orbs  they  curtain'd,  yet  display'd  so  well. 

Around  their  edge  the  jetty  fringe  that  lies, 

Seems  even  to  shade  the  cheeks  that  'neath  them  swell. 

Her  brows  a  crescent  form,  that  highest  bends 

Just  where  the  forehead  in  the  temple  ends. 


ESTELLE.  45 


CII. 


Why  need  I  mention  that  her  comely  nose 
Was  not  of  classic,  or  DESSANTI'S  mould  ? 
That  in  her  cheek  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Mix'd  not,  but  hues  more  fadeless  and  less  cold  ? 
That  her  full  chin  you  had  from  thousands  chose, 
Though  these  the  loveliest  human  eyes  behold  ? 
Since  nought  in  any  face,  from  North  to  South, 
Could  match  her  eyes,  save  her  own  matchless  mouth. 

cm. 

Hers  was  the  face  which  every  Christian  nation 

Has  seen  its  Zeuxes,  by  a  nice  accord, 

(I  will  not  say,  by  servile  imitation,) 

Give  to  the  Virgin  Mother  of  the  Lord, 

And  found  befit,  in  general  estimation, 

The  ungather'd  Rose  before  all  saints  ador'd. 

Hence  travell'd  swains  would  whisper,  gazing  on  her, 

In  graphic  rapture,  "  Cristo  !  a  Madonna  !  " 

CIV. 

Because,  when  looking  down,  the  smooth  clear  line 
Of  her  arch'd  eyebrows,  and  her  lid's  broad  curve, 
Her  cheek's  not  fair  carnation,  and  the  fine 
Pure  oval  of  her  visage,  were  what  serve 
To  assimilate  all  heads  of  the  divine 
And  worshipp'd  seed  of  JESSE  ;  though  deserve 
None  I  have  seen,  save  one,  a  mention  near 
This  flower  of  maids,  and  beauty  without  peer. 


46  MADONNAS. 


CV. 


For,  one  excepted,  they  are  wanting  all 
(Even  RAPHAEL'S  (i)  )  in  that  virginal  expression 
About  the  mouth,  which,  ever  since  the  fall, 
Has  been  the  rarest  and  most  frail  possession 
Of  those  who  wear  the  petticoat  and  shawl, 
Whate'er  their  nation,  age,  rank,  or  profession. 
The  exception  stands  at  ROME,  and  swells  that  oglio 
Of  carv'd  and  painted  things,  the  Campidoglio. 

(i)  It  may  for  a  moment  excite  surprise,  that  any  one  should 
venture  to  deny  this  quality  to  the  Madonnas  of  RAPHAEL,  whose 
women  are  always  modest;  but  I  am  not  now  speaking  of  an  ex- 
pression of  ordinary  feminine  purity.  His  faces  of  the  favored 
MARY  are  chaste  and  saintlike  enough ;  but  they  have  a  character, 
or  a  want  of  character,  in  the  mouth,  that  is  totally  incompatible 
with  the  idea  of  perfect  virginity, —virginity  as  I  mean  it  here, 
—  a  virginity  of  mind  as  well  as  of  body.  With  RAPHAEL  the 
mouth  of  the  Madonna  always  corresponds  with  the  regular  and 
delicate  arch  of  her  brows,  and  their  great  elevation  from  the  eye- 
lids, and,  like  these  peculiarities,  it  gives  the  face  an  insipidity  of 
expression  that  is  characteristic  of  a  silly  though  amiable  woman, 
and  that  certainly  is  any  thing  but  divine,  or  worthy  of  the  mother 
of  the  Redeemer*;  whereas  the  expression  that  I  mean  approaches 
more  nearly  to  my  idea  of  what  may  be  angelic,  than  any  other 
character  that  I  know  of,  as  really  belonging,  or  as  attributed  by 
painters  and  sculptors,  to  the  human  countenance.  It  is  rarely, 

*  Even  an  unbeliever,  who,  with  ROUSSEAU,  should  consider  the  Author  of 
our  sacred  religion  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  character,  would  endeavour, 
we  should  think,  to  represent  his  Mother  as  a  more  than  ordinary  woman ; 
for  general  principles  would  so  require.  How  strange  then  that  Christians  of 
the  Romish  church  should  have  gone  no  further  than  to  give  to  MARY  merely 
beauty  and  amiability  ! 

If  you  but  change  the  worship  of  JUPITER  and  the  subordinate  deities  to  that 
of  the  triune  Godhead  and  a  legion  of  saints,  ROME  is  the  same  in  religion  now 
that  she  was  before  the  dawn  of  Christianity  ;  yet  the  symbols  of  her  mysteries, 
how  very  inferior!  The  ancient  sculptors  of  her  city  gave  to  the  aspect  of 
their  gods  something  of  divinity,  while  the  best  among  the  painters  of  modern 
ITALY  have  made  the  Virgin  and  her  Infant  merely  mortal. 


MADONNAS.  47 

CVI. 

But  of  the  five  and  thirty  Virgins  there,  (i) 
By  SACCHI,  SCHIAVONI,  SCARSELLINO, 
BASSA'N,  ALBANO,  CAMPI,  and  the  pair 
That  made  BOLOGNA  famous  (2),  PERUGINO, 
PAUL  VERONESE,  and  many  more  as  rare, 
Which  is  the  true  Madonna  col  bambino  (3) 
I  have  forgot  ;  but  mount  the  stair,  or  scala, 
You  '11  find  her  somewhere  in  the  Prima  Sala  (4). 

—  very,  very  rarely,  —  to  be  seen  in  woman  after  puberty;  but  just 
before  the  period  of  the  developement  of  the  passions  you  may  find 
it  in  perfection,  in  the  lovely  and  ingenuous  of  the  sex ;  though 
even  with  these  (owing  perhaps  to  the  congenital  transmission  of 
those  peculiarities  of  feature,  which  are  indicative  of  the  habit  of 
certain  passions  or  sentiments)  it  is  not  by  any  means  common. 

(1)  The  gallery  of  paintings  in  the  Capitol  at  ROME  was  designed 
by  BENEDICT  XIV.  (1794)   for  the  instruction  of  youth,  and,  in 
ITALY,  is  to  be  considered  merely  a  very  respectable  collection  of 
specimens  of  the  more  distinguished  artists  of  nearly  three  centu- 
ries.    Of  about  200  pieces,  which  it  comprises,  thirty-five  have  the 
Madonna  and  Infant,  by  themselves,  or  as  the  centre  of  a  group. 

The  collection,  however,  contains  some  much  admired  pictures 
by  eminent  hands,  such  as  the  celebrated  Persian  Sybil  of  GUERCI- 
KO,  the  Cumccan  Sybil  of  DOMENICHINO,  the  DefeM  of  Darius  by 
PETER  of  CORTONA,  and  the  famous  masterpiece  of  GUERCINO, 
which  he  executed  for  the  Vatican,  the  STA.  PETRONILLA. 

(2)  LEWIS  and  his  cousin  ANNIBAL,  CARACCI.  —  LUDOVICO  CA- 
RACCI was  the  founder  of  the  school  of  BOLOGNA,  which  did  so 
much   for  the   arts.     He   associated  with  himself  ANNIBAL  and 
ACGUSTIN,  the  sons  of  his  uncle.     AGOSTINO  CARACCI  did,  com- 
paratively, but  little  in  painting. 

(3)  Col  bambino,  with  the  infant.     The  Italian  mode  of  cata- 
loguing such  pictures,  as  in  English  we  say,  the  Virgin  and  Child. 

(4)  The  collection  ia  divided  into  two  rooms  or  halls,  —  the  Prima 
and  Seconda  Sala. 


48  THE   WOODLAND  LAKE. 

CVII. 

There,  as  you  enter,  turning  on  your  heel, 
You  have  before  you,  sidelong  by  the  door, 
The  very  face  whose  lineaments  reveal 
Much  of  the  charm  ESTELLE'S  sweet  visage  wore  ; 
So  like,  that  CARRYL  almost  long'd  to  steal 
The  shape  divine  ;   and,  leaving  ROME,  he  bore 
A  copy  with  him,  without  saint  or  glory  (i) ; 
(But  this  is  to  anticipate  my  story.) 

CVIII. 

Near  the  lov'd  city  in  whose  walls  I  write, 

There  is,  embosom'd  in  a  sweet  wild  wood, 

Which  lust  of  gain  has  lately  made  a  site 

For  sepulture,  (and  meet  it  is  and  good, 

That  there,  where  peace  and  solitude  invite 

To  meditation  and  the  solemn  mood, 

The  dead  should  sleep  their  hour,  not  where  the  eye 

Accustom'd  marks  them  not,  or  carelessly,) 

CIX. 

A  little  lake  ;   its  waters,  crystal-clear  ; 
In  form,  an  oval  regular.     Around, 
From  its  extremest  edge,  the  forests  rear 
Their  sloping  summits,  and  the  horizon  bound. 

(i)  I  forget  whether,  in  this  picture,  the  Virgin  has  a  glory  ;  but 
it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  so,  it  being  a  prescriptive  absurdity 
which  painters  seldom  if  ever  omit.  If  it  be  the  one  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  it,  there  are  several  saints  about  the  Madonna. 


THE  WOODLAND  LAKE.  49 

No  rock  ;  no  chasm  ;  the  wave,  the  woods  appear, 
And  one  scarce-visible  belt  of  yellow  ground. 
The  eye  an  amphitheatre  thus  sees  ; 
The  flood  the  arena,  and  its  seats  the  trees. 


ex. 


No  sound  the  sweetly  solemn  silence  breaks, 

Save  when  the  night-wind  in  the  leaves  is  sighing, 

Or  lonely  bittern  suddenly  forsakes 

His  reedy  covert,  o'er  the  blue  mere  flying. 

Mirror 'd  upon  its  waste,  or  ospray  takes 

Her  perch  on  some  dead  bough,  intently  eyeing 

The  dimpled  surface,  where,  from  side  to  side, 

The  tiny  waterflies  capricious  glide. 

CXI. 

There,  it  is  said,  the  flood  is  never  seen 

To  sink  below  its  level,  or  to  rise, 

In  vernal  time  or  harvest,  yet,  I  ween, 

Hid  are  both  source  and  drain  from  human  eyes. 

Shelter'd  and  circled  by  her  ramparts  green, 

Lovely  and  lone,  the  sylvan  beauty  lies  ; 

Bright  with  the  sun,  soft  when  his  glories  fade, 

Majestic  in  the  dark  wood's  awful  shade. 

CXII. 

And  such,  so  like  in  charms  this  virgin  water, 
So  grand,  so  soft,  so  tranquil,  so  retir'd, 
Appear 'd  the  beauty  of  DESSANTI'S  daughter. 
Sorrow  might  dim  the  features  you  admir'd, 
5 


50  ESTELLE. 

A  chance  emotion  ruffle  ;  but  you  thought  her 
Still  wonderful,  and  fain  would  have  inquir'd 
By  what  philosophy  a  maid  so  tender 
Prov'd  equable  despite  of  age  and  gender. 


CXIII. 

Ask  of  the  mole,  that  stems  the  rushing  tide, 
Of  what  slight  straws  its  substance  is  compacted. 
Philosophy  !  frail  boast  of  sightless  pride  ! 
Part  study 'd  oft,  but  seldom  yet  enacted  ! 
It  was  the  soul,  the  native  spirit,  ally'd 
To  firm-bas'd  principle,  which  aye  exacted 
And  put  restraint  on  all  suggested  ill, 
That  kept  ESTELLE'S  clear  temper  equal  still. 

CXIV. 

Not  lovelier,  when  to  Earth  translated  first, 
Sped  by  the  Thunderer,  came  the  mythic  Eve, 
With  all  those  heaven-born  graces  blest  yet  curst, 
Which  taught  the  Titan  (i)  how  to  love  and  grieve  ; 

(i)  EPIMETHECS, 

'Q;  xxxev  t\  «££»!?  ytvtr1  av^gaffit  u*./p>)ffT>iffi  ' 
Tlgtoros  ytt^  j«  Aiaj  !rX*«-r>)»  iiviStxra  yvmixtt 

Uafiw. 

(HES.  T/ieog.  510,  juxtaed.  PHIL.  JUNTJE,  fZor.  impr.  1515.) 
JUVENAL  gives  the  name  to  his  brother,  PROMETHEUS,  as  being  the 
offspring  of  the  Titan,  JAPETI)S  : 

E  meliore  luto  finxit  praecordia  Titan,     (xiv.  35.) 
So  OVID  calls  the  Sun  Titan,  as  sprung  of  HVPERION: 

Nullus  adhuc  mundo  prtebebat  lumina  Titan,  (Met.  i.  10.) 
The  fable  of  PANDORA  is  too  well  known  to  need  to  be  recounted, 
even  to  the  ordinary  reader. 


THE   HALL  OF  INTRODUCTION.  51 

When  sorrow  and  sin  on  man  devoted  burst, 
Hope  only  left,  to  solace  yet  deceive  ; 
Not  lovelier,  and  less  gifted  ;  for  ESTELLE 
To  woman's  best  virtues  added  man's  as  well. 

cxv. 

Magnanimous,  in  whom  no  thought  of  guile, 

No  meanness,  even  for  a  moment,  sway'd, 

No  selfish  pride  ....  But  let  me  pause  awhile, 

My  thumb  now  weary 'd,  and  my  harpstrings  fray'd  ; 

Haply  not  dreading  less  my  hearer's  smile, 

So  long  upon  this  symphony  delay'd. 

But  in  the  sequent  portion  he  shall  hear 

Strains  which,  I  trust,  will  less  fatigue  the  ear. 

CXVI. 

This  Canto  may  be  call'd,  — to  change  the  trope,  — 

My  hall  of  introduction,  where  one  makes 

A  general  acquaintance  (which  I  hope 

Time  will  convert  to  friendship,  for  all  sakes  ;  ) 

A  form  whose  stiffness  little  suits  my  scope. 

But  now  'tis  over,  and  the  assembly  breaks, 

Spread  through  the  various  rooms,  where  due  exertion 

Is  making  to  diversify  diversion. 


CANTO     SECOND. 
t]>at,  f&e  jjan  Jet  fjen  on  Jim  catt 

CHAU.  Tr.  $•  Cr.  in. 


ARTHUR    CARRYL. 

A  NOVEL. 
CANTO    SECOND. 


FAIR  ladies  !  and  particularly  you, 
My  gentle  countrywomen  !  I  entreat 
You  will  not  deem  the  portraits  given  to  view 
Of  CONSTANCE  and  ESTELLE  a  pleasant  cheat, 
Or  think  their  virtues,  which  I  sketch'd,  not  drew, 
But  yet  shall  draw,  are  such  as  never  meet 
Together  in  one  woman,  miss  or  madam, 
But  savor  of  the  good  old  days  of  ADAM. 


II. 


I  do  assure  you,  as  I  fain  would  see 
You  all  aspire  to  be  like  them,  nor  less  ; 
Making  resistless  charms  which  specially 
Ye,  Beauties  of  this  hemisphere,  possess  ; 
As  I  do  love  you  all,  to  that  degree 
Which,  though  a  poet,  I  can  ne'er  express  ; 
Both  liv'd,  though  bearing  in  unfinish'd  youth 
To  stars  more  bless'd  their  innocence  and  truth. 


56  SYMPATHY. 

III. 

Both  liv'd  (I  would  I  might  say,  live!}  and  were 
As  pure,  high-soul'd,  and  amiable  as  I 
Have  painted,  and  shall  paint  them,  or  I  err. 
And  you,  my  rougher  readers,  be  not  by 
Your  own  experience  blinded  to-  aver 
Such  graces  and  such  virtues  ne'er  ally 
Their  lovely  forces  ;  for  this  gentle  pair 
Were  not  in  goodness  more  than  beauty  rare. 


IV. 


As  for  ESTELLE,  I  would  you  could  have  seen  her  f 
So  beauteous,  so  accomplish'd,  and  so  true  ! 
High-soul'd,  yet  humble,  and  of  mild  demeanour, 
With  gentle  courage,  given  but  to  the  few.  .  .  . 
But  ah,  my  heedless  spirit  !     I  must  wean  her 
From  this  way-loitering  while  the  fault  is  new. 
Forget  we  then  thy  charms,  ESTELLE  !  till  over 
The  strait  'twixt  CALAIS  and  the  cliffs  of  DOVER. 

V. 

There  is  a  sympathy  that  quickly  wakes 
For  those  who  unresisting  suffer  wrong, 
When  in  our  hearts  no  selfish  interest  takes 
The  part  of  the  oppressor  and  the  strong  ; 
Whether  it  be  that  ready  fancy  makes 
The  woes  which  properly  to  them  belong 
Our  own,  and  in  their  sufferings  we  see 
Types  of  what  ours  may  one  day  come  to  be  ; 


SYMPATHY.  57 


VI. 


Or  that  the  jealousy  and  envy  given, 

By  Nature,  to  restrain  the  growth  of  Pow'r, 

Which  otherwise,  unless  o'erthrown  by  HEAVEN, 

Would  pierce  the  clouds,  a  second  Babel's  tow'r, 

Makes  us  to  hate  its  very  semblance  even, 

(As  men  behold  some  beast  that  may  devour, 

Though  cag'd  and  barr'd,  with  shrinking  and  distrust,) 

And  view  its  exercise  with  strong  disgust  ; 

VII. 

Or  that  we  feel,  at  sight  of  human  wo, 
Superior  to  the  sufferers,  and,  thus  made 
Contented  with  ourselves,  at  once  we  grow 
Indulgent,  and  dispos'd  to  soothe  and  aid 
The  authors  of  that  pleasantness  we  know  ; 
Whether  this  be  the  principle  obey'd, 
Or  that  (hypothesis  perhaps  the  best) 
There  really  dwells  in  man's  corrupted  breast 

VIII. 

A  natural  goodness,  which,  when  there  opposes 

No  selfish  bias  against  the  fine  emotion, 

To  sudden  sympathy  the  heart  uncloses, 

And  tow'rd  the  injur'd  wakes  a  brief  devotion  : 

Be  it  as  't  may,  or  as  the  reader  chooses, 

Our  passengers  were  mov'd  with  strong  commotion, 

Shock'd  by  the  scene  we  've  given  and  sequent  quarrel, 

And  look'd  with  no  kind  eyes  on  ARTHUR  CARRYL. 


CARRYL  IN   BAD  ODOR. 


IX. 


Especially  the  women  ;  for  the  men, 
Indifferent  more  by  nature,  were  restrain'd, 
Haply,  besides  by  common  prudence.     Then 
You  might  perceive  the  difference  which  obtain'd 
Among  the  three  whose  beauties  grace  my  pen  : 
Not  but  that  all  their  placidness  regain'd 
Full  soon,  and  for  the  two  we've  lately  nam'd, 
Even  CARRYL  their  brief  umbrage  had  not  blam'd. 

X. 

Considering  him  ill-bred,  unfeeling,  proud, 
BIANCA  glanc'd  a  lively  indignation, 
That  seem'd  as  't  would  emit  itself  aloud 
Upon  the  unweeting  youth.     Nojrritation 
In  CONSTANCE'  lovely  features  was  avow'd, 
But  a  sweet  sorrow  and  commiseration, 
As  if  she  griev'd  for  nature  brought  so  low, 
To  triumph  o'er  a  bruis'd  and  prostrate  foe. 


XI. 


With  a  grave  dignity  and  fix'd  regard, 
Where  mingled  some  surprise  and  some  severity, 
The  high-soul 'd  daughter  of  the  SAVOYARD 
Ey'd  the  offender.     But  its  slight  austerity 
Would  not  have  seem'd  to  CARRYL  passing  hard, 
Had  he  her  notice  heeded  ;   for,  in  verity, 
He  would  have  been  content  at  more  vexation 
To  win  so  fair  a  creature's  observation. 


A  CHANGE  OF  FEELING.  59 


XII. 


But  he,  as  you  have  read,  in  great  anxiety 

Was  watching  the  result  of  FELIX'  fall, 

And  when  he  turn'd,  in  quest  of  some  variety, 

ESTELLE  was  not  regarding  him  at  all, 

And  CONSTANCE,  with  a  marvellous  sobriety, 

Was  hearing  PEBBLE  lecture  upon  Gaul, 

("  A  term,"  he  said,  "for  Cock,  by  classic  showing  ; 

Because  your  FRENCHMAN  was  for  ever  crowing.") 

XIII. 

But  the  bright  daughter  of  the  immortal  city 
Which  whilom  suckled  Portias  and  Cornelias, 
Found  soon  her  indignation  melt  to  pity,  — 
A  pity  admirative,  like  OPHELIA'S  (l); 
And  then,  as  happens  with  the  gay  and  witty, 
Whose  metamorphoses  are  like  aurelias', 
Strange  and  entire,  she  judg'd  ere  very  long, 
Her  haste  had  done  the  gentleman  much  wrong, 

XIV. 

The  master's  and  the  man's  exceeding  sadness, 
The  sullen  aspect  which  the  wounded  bore, 
His  rage,  transporting  him  well  nigh  to  madness, 
After  the  scuffle,  and  his  taunts  before, 
And  in  his  countenance  that  settled  badness, 
So  different  from  the  look  our  hero's  wore, 
Nor  less  the  deep  abasement  he  'd  betray 'd 
At  CARRYL'S  whisper,  loathing,  yet  afraid  ; 

(i)  For  HAMLET. 


60  THE  PREJUDICE  WEARING  OFF. 

XV. 

And  finally  the  singular  veneration 

In  which  the  hunchback  seem'd  to  hold  his  master, 

So  mix'd  of  love,  respect,  and  admiration, 

His  own  behavior  since  that  sad  disaster, 

His  look  which  spoke  no  vulgar  education, 

All  this  united  made  BIANCA  cast  her 

Harsh  thoughts  aside,  and  straight  our  lucky  hero 

Rose  on  her  scale  to  blood-heat  up  from  zero. 

XVI. 

Some  others  of  the  passengers  beside, 
Who  look'd  from  time  to  time  upon  the  scene, 
And  now  the  sufferer,  now  the  inflicter  ey'd, 
And  now  the  latter's  master,  though  between 
All  three  the  intervals  were  rather  wide, 
For  MASSINGER  (the  wounded  man,  I  mean) 
A-midships  sate,  (he  would  not  go  below,) 
CARRYL  more  aft,  the  valet  near  the  bow,  — 

XVII. 

Some  others  like  BIANCA  judg'd,  I  say, 
Betwixt  this  double  party,  or  this  treble. 
Among  the  rest  (when  done,  or  put  away, 
Were  song  and  lecture)  they  who  came  with  PEBBLE  ; 
Himself  exempt  ;  for  learning,  some  sly  way, 
Whence  ARTHUR  came,  he  damn'd  him  for  a  rebel,  — 
But  modestly  ;  for,  know,  the  good  soul's  phrases 
Were  "  darn  !  "  for  damn,  and  for  Hell's  brimstone 
"  blazes  !  " 


CUPID  IN  PROSPECT.  61 

XVIII. 

BIANCA  having  dropp'd  her  yellow  glasses, 
And  Fancy  now  a  rosy  lens  supplying, 
The  lively  maid  with  satisfaction  passes 
Her  view  o'er  CARRYL'S  form,  and,  in  it  eyeing 
The  requisite  proportions,  straightway  classes 
The  swain  among  her  pattern  men  ;  then,  plying 
Her  quick  bright  glances  to  explore  each  feature, 
Pronounces  him  a  quite  engaging  creature. 

XIX. 

CARRYL,  whose  eyes  had  been  upon  a  tour 
Of  observation  on  the  people  round  him, 
Where  there  was  aught  of  beautiful  most  sure 
To  sojourn  longest,  and  at  last  had  bound  him 
To  gentle  CONSTANCE,  to  awaken  pure 
Thoughts  of  pure  days  to  sadden  and  confound  him, 
As  you  have  read,  (though  what  has  met  your  view 
He  saw  not  at  one  sight,  nor  even  at  two.) — • 


XX. 


CARRYL,  just  then,  towards  BIANCA  rais'd 
His  long  gray  eyes,  and  caught  hers  fix'd  upon  him. 
Their  steady  pupils  more  intensely  blaz'd, 
Trembled,  perhaps,  but  did  not  seek  to  shun  him. 
It  seem'd  as  if  she  meant,  so  full  she  gaz'd, 
To  petrify  him,  or  at  least  to  stun  him. 
But  only  CARRYL'S  eyes  were  turn'd  to  stone  ; 
They  mov'd  not  ;  and  BIANCA  dropp'd  her  own. 
6 


62  CUPID  COMES  NIGHER. 

XXI. 

And  a  deep  blush  o'erspread  her  cheek  and  brow, 
And  dy'd  her  neck  the  purple  of  the  rose. 
Discomfited,  but  careful  not  to  show 
What  might  too  warm  an  interest  disclose, 
She  drew,  with  motion  negligent  and  slow, 
Her  veil  upon  the  prospect,  and  arose, 
And  presently  was  seen  to  pace  the  deck, 
Quite  at  her  ease,  and  arm'd  for  fresh  attack. 

XXII. 

Now  be  it  known  that  ARTHUR  had  one  fault,  — 
His  only  one  perhaps,  like  MILTON'S  ADAM, — 
A  proneness  to  be  taken  by  the  salt 
Thrown  on  his  tail  by  damosel  or  madam  ; 
Weakness  most  sore  !  which  made  him  often  halt 
In  his  best  path  ;   and  then,  though  it  would  mad  him 
To  find  the  night  o'ertake  his  amorous  dallying, 
The  loiterer  rarely  could  succeed  in  rallying. 

XXIII. 

Not  on  the  forest  oak  with  surer  aim, 
And  stroke  more  fatal^  falls  the  forked  fire, 
From  heaven  down-rushing,  than  the  subtile  flame, 
Shot  from  the  sky  of  love  and  warm  desire 
In  Beauty's  eyes,  on  ARTHUR'S  spirit  came, 
(Drawn  by  the  loveliest  feelings  that  inspire 
The  heart's  sweet  passion,)  shivering  ere  its  time 
His  peace,  and  blasting  virtues  yet  in  prime. 


CARRYL'S  FOIBLE.  63 

XXIV. 

As  with  the  heroes  of  the  olden  song, 
Whom  Fable  clothes  with  superhuman  pow'rs, 
The  faculties  which  lift  them  from  the  throng 
One  point  impairs,  and  levels  quite  with  ours  ; 
Or  to  the  charter  of  their  fates  belong 
Some  hard  conditions,  which  curtail  their  hours  ;  — 
ANGLANTE'S  lord  was  tender  in  the  sole, 
And  took  especial  care  to  keep  it  whole  :  (i) 


ORRILO'S  fate  a  single  hair  suspended  (2)  ; 
Bold  FERRAU,  with  sevenfold  temper'd  steel, 


(1)  ORLANDO  is  described  as  invulnerable  in  every  part  of  his 
body,  except  the  soles  of  his  feet,  the  which,  his  poet  tells  us,  and 
we  readily  believe,  he  guarded  con  ogni  studio  cd  artc,  studiously 
and  with  art.     The  knight  of  SPAIN  (second  line  of  the  next  stan- 
za) bore  an  equally  charmed  life,  being  mortal  only  in  the  part 
whereat,  in  the  language  of  the  bard,  the  infant  receives  its  first 
nourishment,  nel  venire  ancor  serrate.    This  spot,  accordingly,  he 
took  care  to  cover  as  mentioned  in  the  text,  sempre,  Di  settc,  pias- 
tre fatte  a  luone  tcmpre.    See  the  OrL  Fur.  xii.  47,  48. 

(2)  ORRILO  ;  —  a  necromancer  and  robber,  in  the  Orlando^  who 
enjoyed  the  enviable  faculty  of  replacing  any  of  his  members,  as 
well   as   his  head,  as  fast  as  they  were   lopped   from  the  body, 
ASTOLFO,  discovering  that  his  power  of  vitality  lay  in  a  single  hair 
of  his  head,  snatches  up  the  latter,  after  striking  it  from  the  owner's 
shoulders,  runs  away  with  it  on  horseback,  and,  to  make  sure  work, 
shaves  the  entire  scalp,  using  his  sword  as  a  razor,  and  holding  the 


64  CARRYL'S  FOIBLE. 

The  mother's  mark  between  his  flanks  defended  ; 

Nor  less  familiar  than  ACHILLES'  heel, 

That  fatal  brand  on  which  the  life  depended 

Of  (EMEUS'  heir,  when  she,  whose  heart  could  feel 

Joy  for  his  valor,  curs'd  the  prize  it  won, 

And  in  the  nephew  ceas'd  to  know  the  son  ;  —  (l) 

XXVI. 

So  ARTHUR'S  frailty  was  the  mortal  spot 
That  marr'd  an  otherwise  immortal  nature  ; 


head  per  lo  naso,  by  the  nose ;  whereupon  the  face  grows  livid,  the 
eyes  roll  back  in  their  sockets,  and  the  decapitated  trunk,  which 
was  following,  at  full  speed  on  horseback,  the  English  knight,  falls 
from  the  saddle  a  corpse.  See  Orl.  Fur.  Cto.  xv.  64-87.  This 
amusing  fable  was  probably  suggested  by  the  ancient  superstition 
of  PROSERPINA  and  the  fated  lock,  of  which  we  have  so  beautiful 
an  illustration  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  JEneid. 

(i)  At  the  birth  of  MELEAGER,  son  of  (ENEUS,  king  of  CALYDON, 
the  Destinies  were  present,  and  declared  that  his  life  should  last 
while  a  brand,  which  they  threw  upon  the  fire,  should  be  unconsum- 
ed.  Immediately  his  mother,  ALTHEA,  snatched  the  billet  from  the 
hearth,  extinguished  it,  and  treasured  it.  MELEAGER,  having  slain 
the  Calydonian  boar,  gave  the  spoils  to  ATALANTA,  who  had  been 
the  first  to  wound  the  monster.  His  uncles,  in  their  jealousy,  took 
them  from  her,  using  at  the  time  injurious  expressions ;  and  the 
hero  slew  them.  ALTHEA,  on  her  way  to  the  temples,  to  render 
thanks  for  her  son's  good  fortune,  met  the  escort  with  the  bodies 
of  her  brothers,  and,  in  a  transport  of  mingled  grief  and  anger, 
hurrying  back  to  the  palace,  restored  the  billet  to  the  flames.  As 
the  last  cinder  crumbled  into  ashes,  MELEAGER  expired.  See  the 
Metam.  of  OVID,  lib.  viii.  fab.  4. 


CARRYL'S  NATURE,  POETICAL.  65 

Where  sordid  thought  and  low  desire  were  not, 
But  qualities  of  high,  celestial  feature. 
His  weakness  was  what  fell  to  ADAM'S  lot, 
And  foul'd  with  sin  JEHOVAH'S  brightest  creature  ; 
And  worshipping  the  stars  of  woman's  eyes 
Expell'd  him  from  the  Eden  of  the  wise. 

XXVII. 

"Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 

Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? "  (l) 

I  mean  not  to  apologize  for  sin 

In  quoting  which  from  human-nature's  master  ; 

But  this  I  say,  — where  pleasure  is  to  win, 

The  warm  of  blood  will  run  the  race  much  faster, 

Than  he,  whose  chilly  spirits  tempt  him  never 

To  heat,  in  any  way,  his  sluggish  liver.  (2) 

XXVIII. 

Yet  deem  not  ARTHUR  sensual  ;  though  warm, 
His  nature  was  essentially  poetical. 
Enamour'd  of  the  excellence  of  form, 
(Pray  pardon  me  these  stanzas  exegetical,) 
He  sought  therewith  combin'd  a  higher  charm,  — 
Though  finding  it  most  often  antithetical,  — 
The  charm  of  moral  worth  :   as  I  shall  prove, 
His  love  was  passion,  but  his  passion  love. 

(1)  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  i.  Sc.  1. 

(2)  "  And  let  thy  liver  rather  heat  with  wine,"  etc.    Same;  same 
passage. 

6* 


66  CUPID  SOUJNDS  TO  ARMS,  AND 

XXIX. 

Essentially  poetical,  to  him 
All  beauty  was  divinity,  and  Heaven 
Shone  in  the  stars  not  more  than  in  the  dim 
And  shadowy  forest,  and  a  voice  was  given 
To  the  minutest  insect  life,  to  hymn 
Sweet  adoration  like  the  birds,  and  even 
Attraction  in  the  homeliest  things  that  crawl,  — 
For  GOD  was  in  them,  and  the  soul  of  all. 

XXX. 

But  most  in  woman's  beauty  ARTHUR  saw 

The  image  of  Creative  Love  complete. 

3T  was  there  he  worshipp'd,  and  if  not  with  awe, 

(For  this,  sensation's  thrill  was  all  too  sweet,) 

Yet  with  an  ecstasy  that  seem'd  to  draw 

All  feelings  to  its  vortex  ;   and  the  beat 

Of  his  strong  pulse,  if  caus'd  by  passion  then, 

Was  not  the  kind  that  stirs  the  mass  of  men. 

XXXI. 

BIANCA'S  charms  could  not  the  observation 
Escape  of  so  experienc'd  an  eye  ; 
And  when  our  hero  saw  her  perturbation, 
CUPID,  in  common  phrase,  a  bolt  let  fly, 
That  caus'd,  of  course,  the  usual  titillation, 
Precursor  of  the  thrills  that  make  us  sigh  ; 
And  ARTHUR  for  a  while  look'd  red  and  stupid  : 
He  makes  one  feel  so  foolish,  that  vile  CUPID  ! 


THE  ENGAGEMENT  COMMENCES.  67 


Then  he  too  rose  (not  CUPID,  but  our  hero,) 

And  took  his  seat  where  BLANCHE  had  just  been  seated, 

And  looking  o'er  the  poop  as  blank  as  zero, 

He  made  the  lady  fear  she  had  been  cheated  ; 

But  soon  she  found  he  was  not  quite  a  jSero, 

For  presently  her  little  heart  he  treated 

With  sidelong  glances,  neither  harsh  nor  haughty  : 

And  BLANCHE  return'd  them  ;  which  was  very  naughty. 

XXXIII. 

Now  all  this  time  the  packet  was  in  motion, 

As  I  suppos'd  the  reader  might  suppose, 

And,  though  the  day  was  fine,  a  slight  commotion 

Was  ruffling  up  the  ugly  sea  that  flows 

'Twixt  FRANCE  and  ENGLAND,  worse  than  open  ocean, 

As  every  one  that  's  try'd  them  both  well  knows, 

And  spite  of  gayety,  and  even  flirtation, 

Poor  BLANCHE  began  to  feel  an  odd  sensation. 

XXXIV. 

And  soon  the  color  of  her  lovely  cheek, 
That  had  a  tone  voluptuous  and  mellow, 
Was  seen  to  leave  the  picture,  streak  by  streak, 
Which  turn'd  first  pale,  and  presently  pale  yellow. 
But  still,  perhaps  in  pride  to  seem  less  weak 
Than  many  a  maid  and  more  than  one  stout  fellow, 
She  resolutely  pac'd  the  deck  along, 
But  with  a  step  less  equal  and  less  strong. 


68  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

XXXV. 

At  length  (by  accident,- 1  deem)  she  dropp'd 
One  of  her  gloves  before  young  CARRYL'S  feet, 
And  as,  when  lifting  it  he  rose,  she  stopp'd, 
Thank'd  him  in  French,  with  smile  and  gesture  sweet, 
Then  turn'd,  o'  th'  sudden,  like  a  green  bough  lopp'd, 
Which  droops,  not  falls,  she  sunk  into  a  seat, 
Close  by  our  hero,  who,  in  consternation, 
Began  to  proffer  his  commiseration. 

XXXVI. 

This  took  BIANCA  as  her  proper  right  ; 

And  then  she  took —  a  glass  of  simple  water, 

Apologizing  first  with  all  her  might, 

In  the  set  phrases  which  her  breeding  taught  her, 

For  the  vast  trouble  her  unlucky  plight 

Was  giving  his  politeness,  which  besought  her 

Not  to  suppose  that  what  in  any  measure 

Could  give  her  ease  was  aught  to  him  but  pleasure. 

XXXVII. 

This  mutual  and  polite  exaggeration 
Being  finish'd  to  their  mutual  content, 
The  fair  one,  with  a  languid  inclination, 
Against  the  rails  her  person  backward  leant, 
Her  blue  eyes  clos'd,  and  in  this  situation 
Rested  a  little  space,  which  ARTHUR  spent 
In  following  up  his  amorous  prolusions, 
By  drawing  physiognomical  conclusions. 


DISTRUST.  69 

XXXVIII. 

He  mark'd  her  perfect  forehead,  and  thence  drew 
The  flattering  portrait  of  a  finished  mind  ; 
Then  on  the  brows  he  fix'd  his  raptur'd  view 
That  never  yet  were  match'd,  that  I  can  find, 
And  judg'd  her  gentle-temper'd,  which  was  true, 
But  lively,  and  capricious,  although  kind  ; 
Then  glancing  at  her  downcast  lids,  he  goes 
Straight  to  the  lips,  —  not  liking  much  her  nose. 

XXXIX. 

What  beauty  there,  what  wit,  what  soul  display'd  ! 
But  there  was  something  else  he  scarce  expected. 
Already  had  he  notic'd  that  the  maid 
Was  somewhat,  in  her  tone  of  voice,  affected  ; 
And  now  about  her  lips  he  thought  there  play'd 
A  consciousness  of  triumph,  and  detected, 
Or  fancy'd  he  detected,  in  her  smile, 
Not  more  of  amiability  than  guile. 


XL. 


He,  who  knows  much  of  women,  knows  mistrust. 
Though  he  were  open  as  the  very  day, 
Less  prone  to  doubt  than  infancy,  yet  must 
Suspicion  work  at  last  her  secret  way, 
By  Disappointment  guided  and  Disgust, 
Into  his  heart,  to  make  no  transient  stay. 
ARTHUR,  by  curs'd  experience  taught  in  vain, 
Would  doubt  and  trust,  to  doubt  and  trust  again. 


70  A  JOURNEY,  IN 

XLI. 

And  now  the  demon  of  distrust  awoke, 

And  stirring  in  his  breast  with  motion  sore, 

Poor  BLANCHE'S  chain  of  fascination  broke, 

And  CARRYL'S  pulse  beat  freely  as  before  ; 

And  presently  when  BLANCHE  arose,  and  took 

Her  way  unsteady  to  the  cabin  door, 

He  offer'd  her  his  hand  with  such  ill  grace, 

She  begg'd  he  would  by  no  means  leave  his  place. 

XLII. 

BIANCA'S  figure  was  not  made  for  motion, 
At  least  before  a  scrutinizing  eye  ; 
And  ARTHUR,  having  now  his  amorous  notion 
Shook  off,  was  more  dispos'd  to  laugh  than  sigh. 
"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said,  "  her  flesh  rolls  like  an  ocean 
On  those  huge  hips,  which  are  a  mile  too  high  !  .  . 
I  wonder  that  she  does  not  dress  more  snugly  .  .  . 
And  then,  that  nose  of  hers  is  so  damn'd  ugly  !  " 

XLII1. 

All  this  was  what  the  playbooks  call  aside, 
Or  in  the  sanctum  of  the  speaker's  mind. 
And  then  his  fancy  took  a  sudden  stride 
To  his  far  home,  and  friends  there  left  behind. 
Delicious  travel  !  to  the  dull  earth  ty'd 
While  creeps  the  body,  crippled  or  confin'd, 
To  mount  a  steed  whose  hoofs  outrun  the  Day, 
And  scour  o'er  hills  and  ocean  far  away  ! 


IMAGINATION,  HOMEWARD.  71 

XLIV. 

'T  is  to  have  two  existences  in  one, 

And  be  enfranchis'd  in  the  soul,  ere  dead  : 

High  privilege  !  of  poets  not  alone, 

But  shar'd  by  brains  of  feathers  and  of  lead  : 

(Thus,  in  our  time,  that  ass  of  asses,  S E, 

By  his  long  ears  his  sister  spirit  led, 
In  sympathetic  converse  through  the  air. 
From  Narragansett  to  the  Lord  knows  where.) 

XLV. 

Yet  sad  it  is,  though  sweet,  while  far  from  home, 
To  wander  in  imagination  back, 
When  he,  whose  feet  in  foreign  climates  roam, 
Travels  all  lonesome  in  a  crowded  track, 
And  finds  unshar'd  his  pleasures  even  become 
Dispiriting  and  vapid  ;  for  the  pack 
Of  mutual  wo  is  borne  with  less  annoy 
Than  lonely,  if  there  can  be  lonely  joy. 

XLVI. 

So  CARRYL  found  it  ;  for  his  heart  was  warm, 

And  look'd  for  sympathy,  roam  where  he  would. 

Before  his  vision  rose  the  stately  form 

Of  his  young  sister,  gentle,  fair,  and  good  ; 

He  seem'd  to  feel  her  kisses  ;   and  a  swarm 

Of  other  thoughts,  that  wake  "  the  melting  mood," 

Gather'd  about  his  heart,  and  strove  to  rise. 

He  turn'd  to  CONSTANCE,  not  to  shame  his  eyes. 


72  THE  CONVERSATION. 

XLVII. 

He  turn'd,  and  from  the  sea  his  vacant  gaze 
Withdrew,  to  contemplate  not  CONSTANCE  VERB,, 
But  meet  BIANCA,  who,  to  his  amaze, 
Was  coming  tow'rds  him  with  a  look  as  clear 
And  kind,  as  she  had  known  him  all  her  days, 
Or  had  not  found  him  formal  and  severe. 
Pale  she  was  still,  but  languid  now  no  more  ; 
And  her  large  eyes  look'd  softer  than  before. 

XLVI1I. 

Without  a  single  moment's  hesitation, 

She  took  again  the  seat  which  she  had  quitted, 

And,  with  great  swiftness  of  enunciation, 

From  her  most  delicate  mouth  of  rose  emitted 

Fresh  compliments,  upon  an  obligation 

Whereof  she  would  have  been  ten  times  acquitted 

For  only  one  of  those  sweet  looks,  with  which 

She  made  the  copy  of  her  thanks  so  rich. 

XLIX. 

"  Monsieur  has  been  so  very,  very  kind  ! 
I  know  not  what  I  should  have  done,"  quoth  she, 
"  Without  his  help.     A  trifle  ?     Never  mind  : 
Though  such  to  you,  it  has  not  been  to  me. 
Better  ?     O,  thank  you,  sir  !  I  really  find 
Myself  quite  well  :  my  spirits,  as  you  see, 
Are  light  enough  :  indeed,  they  never  sag." 
And  here  she  drew  a  book  out  from  her  bag. 


PROFESSED  TRAVELLERS.  73 


"D'  you  read  Italian  ?     Yes  ?     Ah  !  that  is  well  ! 
Perhaps  you  speak  it  ?     Bene  !     I  'm  delighted. 
I  French  ?     O,  no  !     I  fancy  you  might  tell 
By  my  false  accent  .  .  .     Nay  !  you  're  not  invited 
To  coin  me  compliments  :  if  I  excel 
In  your  kind  eyes,  you  surely  are  near-sighted  : 
I  am  of  ROME.     And  Monsieur,  whence  is  he  ? 
AMERICA  ?     That  world  beyond  the  sea  ? 


LI. 


"  I  thought  you  English  :  but,  't  is  all  the  same. 
No  ?     Well  then,  nearly.     Do  you  much  admire 
Our  poets  ?     Here  are  some  of  modern  name  ; 
A  sort  of  album  of  the  Tuscan  quire  : 
Parini,  Pindemonle,  more  of  fame  ; 
Ode,  song,  and  sonnet,  all  you  can  desire." 
And,  opening  the  book  about  midway, 
She  read  aloud  MANZONI'S  Fifth  of  May. 

LII. 

Aloud  ;  that  is,  to  CARRYL  ;  who  express'd 
No  way  surprise,  and  had  none  to  dissemble. 
Unlike  that  fry  of  travellers  profess 'd, 
From  Captain  BASIL  down  to  F Y  K , 


Who  find  all  strange  that  feather'd  not  the  nest 
Of  their  own  littleness,  and  make  us  tremble 

7 


74  CUPID  CONTEMPLATIVE. 

Lest,  in  their  zeal  to  show  us  somewhere  tainted, 
They  prove  our  mother  one  of  Hell's  own  sainted  (i)  ; 


LIII. 


Unlike  these  "  learned  Thebans  "  (2),  ARTHUR  paid 

No  human  thing  the  deference  of  wonder, 

But,  like  the  facile  GREEK  (3)  whose  shield  display'd 

Wing'd  EROS  brandishing  his  grandsire's  thunder, 

All  manners  suited  him,  and  he  was  made 

To  suit  all  manners,  nor  so  gross  a  blunder 

Committed,  as  to  think  that  all  mankind 

In  breaking  eggs  should  have  the  self-same  mind.  (4) 


(1)  They,  who  are  very  violent  in  charging  particular  vices  or 
faults  on  others,  may,  in  almost  every  case,  be  suspected  of  pos- 
sessing them  to  a  greater  degree  themselves.      True  virtue  is  es- 
sentially charitable.     And  as  this  is  true  of  individuals,  so  it  is  of 
states. 

(2)  "  I  '11  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned  Theban."     LEAR 
of  Tom  o'  Bedlam.     K.  Lear,  Act  iii.  Sc.  4. 

(3)  ALCIBIADES;  whose  vain  but  pertinent  device,  Cupid  armed 
with  a  thunderbolt,  is  well  known. 

(4)  See  GULLIVER'S  account  of  the  war  between  the  Big  and 
Little  Endians,  chap.  iv.  of  the  Voyage  to  Lilliput. 

Captain  MARRYAT,  or  Major  HAMILTON,  or  some  other,  or  all  of 
these  philosophic  tourists,  found  their  refinement  excessively  out- 
raged by  a  habit,  which  the  greater  part  of  the  AMERICANS  have 
presumed  to  adopt  without  asking  permission  of  the  ENGLISH, 
namely,  that  of  emptying  eggs,  at  breakfast,  into  a  wineglass,  in- 
stead of  eating  them  from  the  shell.  There  is  a  class  of  men, 
whose  notions  of  good-breeding  never  go  beyond  external  forms, 
and  even  in  these  are  confined  to  such  as  they  have  seen  practised 


CUPID  CONTEMPLATIVE.  75 

LIV. 

He  listen'd  gravely,  while  BIAXCA  read 

From  Ei  fu  even  down  to  lui  poso  (i), 

But  never  knew  one  word  of  all  she  said, 

His  thoughts  being  where  his  eyes  were  fix'd,  I  trow  ; 

And  who,  when  just  in  reach  two  lips  so  red 

Were  playing  fast  and  loose,  would  care  to  know, 

Unless  his  heart  were  hoary  grown,  or  stony, 

What  mischief  they  were  doing  to  JWanzoni  ? 

LV. 

CARRYL  forgot  his  doubts,  forgot  no  less 

The  hips  which  he  had  found  "  a  mile  too  high," 

Forgot  the  ill  adjustment  of  her  dress, 

Forgot  her  nose,  —  no,  that  was  in  his  eye  ; 

But  even  in  this  he  could  not  but  confess 

His  sudden  spleen  had  all  but  made  him  lie  : 

The   nose,    no  doubt,  was   plain,  —  being  thick,   yet 

small,  — 
But  was  not  "  so  damn'd  ugly,"  after  all. 

in  their  own  country.  Such  persons  should  not  travel.  How  shall 
they  bear  to  use  chopsticks  in  CHINA,  make  a  spoon  of  their  fingers 
in  TURKEY,  or  brandish  an  iron  fork  of  two  prongs  in  the  wilds  of 
western  AMERICA  ?  It  is  a  misery  before  which  all  others  shrink 
in  comparison;  and  its  record  justly  takes  the  place  of  questions  of 
social  order,  public  morals,  and  civil  polity. 

(i)  The  Alpha  and  Omega  of  II  Cinque  Maggio,  the  Ode  in 
question. 


76  THE  CONVERSATION  RESUMED. 

LVI. 

The  recitation  o'er,  BLANCHE  clos'd  the  book, 
And  raising  her  bright  eyes  to  CARRYL'S  face, 
Seem'd  no  wise  disconcerted  by  his  look, 
But  smiling  with  a  most  bewitching  grace, 
The  converse  she  had  suddenly  forsook 
As  suddenly  resum'd,  nor  gave  him  space 
Upon  the  ode  his  sentiments  to  tell. 
Perhaps  she  felt  he  had  not  listen'd  well. 

LVII. 

"  So  far  from  home  !  from  friends  and  kin  so  far  ! 
Do  you  not  fear  to  travel  thus  alone  ? 
Ah,  true  !  your  man.     Most  fortunate  you  are, 
Or  most  unfortunate,  of  all  I  've  known. 
You  ask  me,  why.     Civility  should  bar 
Perhaps  my  answer  ;  but  I  '11  venture  on  : 
His  face  speaks  merit  rare,  which  if  not  his, 
That  shape  says  little  for  his  services." 

LVIII. 

With  a  most  natural  action,  as  she  spake, 
BIANCA,  looking  where  the  hunchback  sate, 
Saw  an  expression  she  could  not  mistake 
In  his  sad  eyes,  which  seem'd  to  indicate 
A  sort  of  trouble  for  his  master's  sake  ; 
Or  thus,  perhaps,  her  conscience  might  translate 
His  earnest  gaze  ;   and  shame  and  indignation 
To  her  pale  cheeks  call'd  back  their  lost  carnation. 


FELIX.  77 

LIX. 

As  instantly  she  turn'd  away  her  eyes, 

FELIX  withdrew  not  his,  and  CARRYL'S  own, 

Which  naturally,  and  likewise  from  surprise 

At  the  maid's  blushes,  after  hers  had  flown, 

Saw  FELIX'  look  ;   whence  he  too  felt  arise 

(The  expression  being  only  too  well  known) 

The  scarlet  of  his  cheek,  which  quick  disdain 

To  be  so  mov'd  but  dy'd  a  deeper  grain.  • 

LX. 

However,  to  BIANCA'S  observation 

He  thus  reply 'd  :  — "You  have  not  judg'd  him  ill  ; 

His  understanding  is  above  his  station, 

Which  't  is  no  choice  of  mine  that  he  should  fill  : 

I  feel  the  ridicule  his  malformation 

Attaches  to  my  taste,  but  much  more  still 

A  self-reproach  that  one  of  so  much  mind 

Should  rank,  through  me,  with  men  of  servile  kind. 

LXI. 

"  True,  't  is  no  fault  of  mine,  as  I  have  said, 
But  springs  from  his  perverseness,  or,  more  truly, 
From  a  too  grateful  heart,  by  which  misled, 
He  estimates  small  kindnesses  unduly. 
In  this  one  point,  despite  his  sober  head 
And  docile  temper,  FELIX  proves  unruly  : 
Excess,  which  very  few  will  have  the  sin 
To  answer  for  of  oft  indulging  in. 
7* 


78  BIANCA'S  PLAN 

LXII. 

"  But,  should  we  meet  again,  as  I  will  hope," 

(Here  CARRYL  sunk  his  voice  unconsciously  ; 

While  BLANCHE  affected  not  to  mark  his  scope,) 

"  I  will  relate  to  you  his  history. 

'T  is  a  sad  tale  ;   for  he  has  had  to  cope 

With  cares  that  ceas'd  not  till  he  follow'd  me,  — 

Oppression,  want,  all  griefs  that  men  befall, 

And  love,  (though  strange  it  seem,)  the  worst  of  all. 

LXIII. 

One  moment  BLANCHE  was  silent.     When  again 

Her  sweet  lips  open'd,  in  a  softer  tone 

The  round  full  Tuscan  pour'd  its  honey'd  strain, 

As  if  it  imitated  CARRYL'S  own. 

Were  their  hearts  bound  by  sympathetic  chain, 

Or  link  magnetic  ?  which,  veridic  S E  ? 

/know  not  ;   but  the  sound  to  CARRYL  comes 
Soft  as  to  thee  the  touch  of  LORA'S  thumbs. 

LXIV. 

"  You  visit  ITALY,  I  dare  to  say  ?  " 

(CARRYL  assented  ;  but  he  thought  her  curious  ;) 

"  But,  doubtless,  first  awhile  in  PARIS  stay, 

Particularly  if  you  be  luxurious  : 

And  much  is  there,  in  truth,  that  will  repay 

A  long  sojourn,  with  interest  usurious. 

The  rest  of  FRANCE  is  speedily  gone  through  ; 

For  PARIS  seen  leaves  little  else  to  view. 


FOR   CARRYL'S   TOUR.  79 

LXV. 

"  The  valleys  of  the  Alps  will  then  receive  you. 
No  ?     Are  not  sure  ?     Well,  let  us  so  suppose  : 
And  surely  in  the  dog-days  't  will  not  grieve  you 
To  have  the  Jungfrau's  (i)  sempiternal  snows, 
Or  the  White  Mountain's  icy  peaks,  relieve  you 
Of  waste  caloric.     When  your  winter  clothes 
You  next  put  on,  the  plains  of  ITALY 
Will  be  around  you,  and  a  world  to  see. 

LXV1. 

"  To  visit  all,  betwixt  the  Po  and  Tiber, 

That  is  of  note,  would  take  you  until  Lent, 

Though  in  the  effort  straining  every  fibre. 

Your  Carnoval  will  thus  in  ROME  be  spent  ; 

Unless  to  view  St.  Mark's  (2),  as  men  describe  her, 

In  vice  and  folly  steep'd,  be  your  intent. 

If  so,  be  sure  to  be  in  time  at  ROME 

To  see  the  lighting  of  ST.  PETER'S  dome  (3). 

(1)  The  Jungfrau  ;  a  lofty  mountain,  of  most  imposing  aspect,  in 
the  Bernese  OBERLAKD.     The  White,  Mountain,  in  the  next  line,  is 
"  Mont  Blanc,"  (Le  Mont  Blanc.) 

(2)  VENICE  ;  where  the  mummery  of  the  Carnoval,  bad  as  it  is 
everywhere,  is  carried,  they  say,  to  an  extreme  of  absurdity  and 
licentiousness  seen  nowhere  else. 

(3)  Which  takes  place  at  Easter,  when,  at  the  instant  of  night- 
fall, the  grand  cupola,  the  front  of  the  basilica,  and  the  porticos  are 
illuminated  by  683  torches,  lighted  in  a  moment  by  254  men,  and 
sometimes  by  891  torches  lighted  by  365  men,  over  and  above  4400 
great  lanterns,  "  che  si  accendono  prima,  e  formano  un  grazioso 


80  MAIDS  AND  WIVES   IN  EUROPE. 

LXVII. 

"  NAPLES But  I  am  chalking  out  your  route  ! 

I  'd  better  gallop  back  with  you  to  CALAIS." 
(Smil'd  CARRYL  ;  but  this  did  not  put  her  out  ; 
His  lip  curl'd  not  in  scorn,  far  less  in  malice.) 
"Like  us,  you  put  up  at  Dessin's,  no  doubt. 
The  best  inn  there.     You  '11  find  it  quite  a  palace. 
Ah  !  there  's  the  yellow  shore  of  FRANCE  in  view. 
The  Princess  beckons.     Pardon.     Sir,  adieu." 

LXVIII 

"  The  princess  beckons  ?     Who  the  deuse  is  she  ? 
Eh  !  what  !     The  devil  !  have  I  been  so  caught  ?  " 
(Thus  ARTHUR  to  himself,  but  inwardly, 
As  BLANCHE  retired  from  him.)     "  Faith,  I  thought 
Those  two  old  women,  ugly  though  they  be, 
Were  of  her  kin  at  least.     I  might  have  taught 
Myself  much  better,  had  I  been  less  blind  ; 
For  'mas  and  maiden  aunts  are  not  so  kind  ; 

LXIX. 

"  Especially  on  this  side  of  the  water, 
Where  they  are  more  of  dragons  than  with  us, 
For  reasons  privy,  nor  permit  a  daughter, 
Or  niece,  a  freedom  deem'd  indecorous 

lume  quasi  di  un  ricamo."  See  FEA  :  Descriz.  di  Roma;  ed.  6ta. 
Tom.  i.  pp.  54,  55.  Thousands  of  people  crowd  to  ROME  about 
this  time,  and  thousands  protract  their  stay  in  the  pontifical  city, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  beholding  the  illumination. 


PHILOSOPHY  AND  FOLLY.  81 

For  virgins  only,  till  some  man  hath  bought  her, 
When  the  tir'd  monsters  cease  to  watch  her  thus, 
And  the  freed  wife  may  ogle  whom  she  will. 
Nor  aunt  or  mother  ever  dream  of  ill. 

LXX. 

"  But  surely  from  her  mien,  her  conversation, 
This  merry  wench,  though  doubtless  of  their  train, 
Can  never  tend  them  in  a  servile  station  ; 
And  this  her  present  attitude  makes  plain." 
And  as  these  thoughts,  with  some  slight  variation, 
Meander'd  through  the  folds  of  CARRYL'S  brain, 
His  eyes,  which  naturally,  as  she  retreated, 
Had  follow'd  BLANCHE  until  he  saw  her  seated 

LXXI. 

Beside  the  elder  princess,  mark'd  her  telling 
Something  that  seem'd  of  interest  to  each, 
While  the  old  lady  caught  the  accents,  welling 
From  the  rose-border'd  and  fresh  fount  of  speech, 
With  smiles  and  glances  at  the  youth,  compelling 
Him,  spite  of  passion  to  suppose  a  breach 
Of  trust  in  BLANCHE,  which,  though  it  woke  no  rancor, 
Yet  made  him  for  an  instant  long  to  spank  her. 

LXX1I. 

But  CARRYL,  notwithstanding  his  warm  blood, 
Was  far  too  philosophical,  or  gay, 
('T  is  much  the  same,)  to  keep  an  angry  mood, 
Especially  tow'rds  woman,  knowing  they 


82  PHILOSOPHY  AND  FOLLY. 

Have  been  permitted,  ever  since  the  Flood, 
To  break  through  canons  tamer  men  obey, 
(And  doubtless  wisely,  —  since  enjoyment  's  seated 
Not  more  in  cheating  than  in  being  cheated  (i).) 

LXXIII. 

Besides,  at  present,  he  had  little  reason 

To  feel  displeasure,  BLANCHE  being  not  to  blame, 

But  his  own  heedlessness,  since,  out  of  season, 

Reckless  of  ridicule  and  dead  to  shame, 

And  out  of  place  (which  is  to  Love  flat  treason,) 

He  needs  must  trifle  with  a  casual  flame, 

And  make  himself  an  object  of  surprise 

And  theme  of  jest  to  all  that  us'd  their  eyes. 

LXX1V. 

ARTHUR  felt  vex'd  ;  but  how  had  throbb'd  his  heart 

With  grief  and  self-conviction  !  had  he  known, 

Not  that  his  cousin  and  his  foe  took  part 

In  scoffing  at  the  weakness  he  had  shown  ; 

Not  that  the  sapient  PEBBLE  did  impart, 

In  what  he  meant  should  seem  an  under-tone, 

To  his  fair  spouse,  his  charitable  fear, 

That  CARRYL'S  wiles  would  cost  yon  maiden  dear  ; 

(i)  "  Doubtless  the  pleasure  is  as  great 

Of  being  cheated  as  to  cheat." 

So  says  BUTLER,  with  more  wit  and  shrewdness  than  grammar, 
(Hudib.  PL  ii.  Cto  iii.  1 .)  Were  there  fewer  dupes  in  the  world, 
the  number  of  the  knaves  would  be  sensibly  less.  A  self-evident 
proposition.  To  apply  it  to  the  explication  of  the  couplet  in  my 
text  will  not  be  difficult. 


CARRYL  AGAIN  IN  BAD  ODOR. 

LXXV. 

Nor  that  the  dame,  with  supercilious  smile, 
Made  answer,  that  his  vision  must  be  dim  ; 
For  if  on  either  side  were  thought  of  guile, 
The  maid,  more  likely,  was  seducing  him, 
(Even  as  she  spoke,  admiring  all  the  while 
ARTHUR'S  broad  shoulders  and  his  length  of  limb, 
And  thinking,  were  he  bent  to  go  astray, 
What  pity  a  mere  girl  should  teach  the  way.) 

LXXVI. 

But  that  the  gentle  CONSTANCE  show'd  surprise, 
And  felt  (her  innocent  nature  knew  not  why) 
Once  more  her  former  prejudice  arise 
Against  our  hero,  while  ESTELLE'S  large  eye 
Plainly  evinc'd  she  deem'd  him  little  wise. 
She  had,  before,  not  rated  him  too  high. 
A  trifler  now,  as  then  a  heart  of  stone, 
Seem'd  he  whose  soul  was  likest  to  her  own  ! 

LXXV1I. 

ARTHUR  felt  vex'd,  —  being  somewhat  disappointed, 
But  then,  as  I  have  writ,  was  not  so  long  ; 
His  mind  being,  like  his  body,  too  well  jointed 
To  feel  regrets,  which  never  shake  the  strong, 
Much  less  the  supple,  when  at  least  anointed 
With  that  rare  oil,  whose  use  the  vulgar  throng 
Know  not,  though  making  at  all  times  pretence 
To  its  possession,  —  simply,  common  sense. 


84  LOVERS   AND  LANDSCAPES. 

LXXVIII. 

So,  from  his  fellow-passengers  he  turn'd 
To  contemplate  the  fast-expanding  shore  ; 
But  in  its  barren  reach  could  be  discern'd 
No  charm  his  love-sick  fancy  to  restore  : 
•  CUPID,  who  will  not  easily  be  spurn'd, 
No  doubt  his  purple  fillet  wav'd  before 
His  vision,  that  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  skies, 
He  saw,  but  only  BLANCHE'S  star-bright  eyes. 

LXXIX. 

O  Love  !     (I  mean  now  to  be  sentimental.) 
O  Love  !  we  call  thee  pleasure,  —  and  thou  art  ; 
But  to  that  portion  of  us  term'd  the  mental, 
Which  is,  as  it  may  happen,  head  or  heart, 
(And  where  to  most  thy  task  is  incidental,) 
'T  is  aught  but  liveliness  thou  dost  impart. 
Laugh  lovers  may,  but  never  by  thy  choosing  ; 
Thou  mak'st  them  take  so  damnably  to  musing. 

LXXX. 

All  senses  then  are  consecrate  to  thee  : 
Vainly  the  eye  is  surnmon'd  to  admire 
The  site  of  cities  ;  and  fine  scenery 
May  stir  the  poet's,  not  the  lover's  fire. 
CONSTANTINOPLE,  fair  PARTHENOPE  (i), 
GENOA  the  Superb  would  only  tire, 

(i)   The   first  name   of  the   city   afterwards    called   Neapolis 


LOVERS   AND  LANDSCAPES.  85 

Could  they  at  all  detain  love-stricken  eyes  ; 
Nor  would  the  Bay  of  Islands  much  surprise,  — 

LXXXI. 

(That  bay  which  one  in  panorama  sees. 
The  bills  describe  it  as  a  wondrous  place  ; 
And  therefore  I  ;   for  which  I  hope  the  fees 
Will  be  remitted  in  my  special  case.) 
I  say,  the  Bay  of  Islands  would  not  please. 
How  then  should  CALAIS'  harbour,  with  a  face 
The  ugliest  perhaps  e'er  fam'd  in  story  (i), 
Drive  out  the  image  of  BLANCHE  GAIOCORE  ? 

LXXXII. 

But  lo  !  the  Pier  is  reach 'd.     Heav'ns  !  what  a  bustle 
On  board  the  packet,  and  upon  the  quay  ! 
Clatter  men's  boots,  and  women's  dresses  rustle, 
And  tongues  shout  orders  which  few  hands  obey  ; 
And  grooms  and  waiting-men  their  betters  justle, 
Or,  struggling  to  make  room,  obstruct  the  way  ; 
And  FRENCHMEN'S  voices,  clamoring  on  the  pier, 
Sound  like  a  Babel  to  the  English  ear. 

whence    in    Italian,  Napoli,  and,   in    French   and   English,  JVa- 
fit,. 

(i)  CALAIS  is  famous  for  the  siege  it  sustained,  for  a  twelve- 
month, (to  wit,  from  August,  1346,  to  the  end  of  the  same  month 
in  1347,)  against  the  forces  of  EDWARD  III.  of  ENGLAND. 

8 


86  THE  PIER. 

LXXXIII. 

And  now  beware  you  guard  your  luggage  well  ; 
For  every  porter  claims  it  as  his  prize, 
Seizes  it,  though  your  breast  with  choler  swell, 
And  bears  it  piecemeal  off  before  your  eyes. 
In  vain  your  valet  gives  the  man  to  hell, 
Or  threatens  blows  ;  the  CALAISAN  (i)  replies 
With  double  zeal  and  fresh  asseverations, 
Arid  serves  you  in  despite  of  protestations. 

LXXXIV. 

Meantime  a  dozen  dirty  hands  extend 

A  dozen  cards  ;  a  dozen  tongues  declare 

The  names  of  inns  they  're  taught  to  recommend  :  — 

"The  Royal,  sir  ?    A  card.     Speak  English  there."  — 

(Idly  you  shake  the  head,  in  vain  expend 

Your  breath :)  "  The  Crown,  monsieur.  Rue  de  la  Mer.  — 

Q,uillac's  ?  "     The  vagabonds  will  not  hear  JVb. 

Take  all  their  pasteboard,  if  you  'd  have  them  go. 

LXXXV. 

Amid  this  hubbub,  which  the  steam  escaping 
Now  from  the  waste-pipe,  with  a  sullen  roar, 
Confounded  worse,  our  hero  landed,  shaping 
His  course  by  three  French  porters  gone  before, 

(i)  The  French  write  Calcsicn,  which  JOHNES,  in  his  translation 
of  FROISSARD,  metaphrases  by  Calesian  ;  but  the  true  English  word 
for  a  citizen  of  CALAIS  would  be  Calaisan,  directly  formed  from 
Calais. 


CAPRICE.  87 

Jarring  incessantly,  and  FELIX  keeping 
A  watchful  eye  upon  the  trunks  they  bore  ; 
But  first  his  pass  demanded  at  the  key, 
Awoke  a  thought  of  home  and  liberty. 

LXXXVI. 

"  To  what  hotel,  sir,  shall  these  things  be  taken  ?  " 
The  porters  ask'd  :  and  FELIX  said,  "  Dessin's." 
But  FELIX  was,  for  once  at  least,  mistaken  ; 
For  CARRYL  silently  had  chang'd  his  plans. 
BIANCA'S  hint  had  all  to  pieces  shaken 
His  first  intention  ;   nor  will  one,  who  scans 
The  motive  narrowly,  consider  strange, 
Though  started  by  caprice,  this  sudden  change. 

LXXXV1I. 

Though  frank,  and  liberal  as  the  air  of  heaven, 
Which  yields  to  all  things  and  pervadeth  all, 
Our  hero  was  but  man  ;   and  love  that  's  given 
Too  freely  in  a  little  time  will  pall  : 
We  rate  most  highly  that  for  which  we  've  striven, 
And  watch'd,  and  waited,  though  it  prove  but  small. 
BIANCA'S  frankness,  and  desire  to  please, 
Alternately  thaw  CARRYL'S  heart  and  freeze. 

LXXXVIII. 

'T  is  the  same  feelings  in  this  matter  move 
Now  Eve,  now  Adam.  Had  BIANCA  been 
Coy,  and  reluctant,  and  reserv'd,  the  love 
Of  ARTHUR  would  have  lack'd  no  spur,  I  ween, 


88  CAPRICE. 

And  she,  in  turn,  had  hardly  prov'd  above 
Inconstant  passion  and  caprice  of  mien  ; 
Except  she  were  impatient  to  surrender, 
As  widows  be,  and  maids  no  longer  tender. 

LXXXIX. 

Thought  ARTHUR  then  :  "  I  would  that  little  brain 
Had  been  less  busy  !     I  must  change  my  mind,  — 
Or  seem  too  anxious.     This  would  make  her  vain. 
The  hook  is  not  yet  swallow'd,  she  shall  find  !  " 
CUPID,  who  since  they  'd  left  the  bark,  had  lain 
Quite  still  in  ARTHUR'S  fob,  but  not  quite  blind, 
At  this  resolve  laugh'd  gaily  in  his  sleeve, 
Foreseeing  future  sport  we  may  believe. 


XC. 


But  he,  within  whose  waistcoat-fold  was  laid, 
Though  not  without  suspect,  ^ENEAS'  brother, 
His  destination  having  alter'd,  bade 
The  varlets  take  his  luggage  to  some  other  : 
"  The  Royal,  in  the  Star,  will  do,"  he  said  ; 
And  on  they  mov'd.     But  FELIX  could  not  smother 
Some  slight  surprise,  suggesting,  "  He  forgot 
Dessin's    was   famous".  .  .     Cries   the   youth,    "  For 
what  ?  " 

XCI. 

"  It  is  the  place  where  STERNE,  that  ribald  wit, 
Sojourn 'd  upon  his  way  to  PARIS  ;   where 
Some  portion  of  his  merry  tour  was  writ  ".  .  . 
"The  truth  of  which  I  think  you  would  not  swear," 


STERNE'S   ROOM.  89 

Quoth  CARRYL  :   "  and  moreover,  where  he  met 
The  lowly  Monk,  and  that  most  gentle  fair, 
Whose  small  soft  fingers,  throbbing  through  her  glove, 
Made  YORICK  spite  his  '  breeches5  guess  at  love.(l) 

XCII. 

"  No,  I  have  not  forgot  ;   but  you,  my  friend, 

Have  you  to  learn  that  such  things  I  despise  ? 

No  pilgrim  devotee  am  I,  to  wend 

Long  journeys  to  the  sepulchre  where  lies 

The  slough  of  some  great  poet,  or  to  bend 

In  awe  o'er  musty  relics  of  the  wise. 

Urns,  tombs,  to  me,  are  simply  tombs  and  urns, 

A  room  no  marvel,  though  you  name  it  Sterne's  (2). 

XCIII. 

"  No,  FELIX  ;  such  realities  for  me 

Are  clogs  to  fancy,  and  not  aids.     And  here 

The  spot's  sole  interest  comes  from  history." 

"King  EDWARD'S  leaguer,   and  the  brave   SAINT- 
PIERRE  ?  " 

"  The  same.     You  have  the  story  fresh,  I  see. 

It  is  a  brief  one,  if  the  inn  is  near  : 

Pray  tell  it  me  ;   for  well  I  know  you  can." 

Bow'd  FELIX,  blush'd,  and,  modest,  thus  began  :  — 

(i)  See,  in  the  Sentimental  Journey,  the  chapters  headed  The 
Monk,  The  Remise,  etc.  Spite  his  "  breeches,"  —  spite  of  his  sacer- 
dotal character.  See  the  Journey. 

(a)  At  Dcssin's,  say  the  guide-books,  is  shown  a  room  where 
STERNE  is  said  to  have  written  part  of  his  Sentimental  Journey. 
The  door  is  inscribed,  "  This  is  Sterne's  room." 
8" 


90  THE  SIEGE 

XCIV. 

"  'K  fojaS  after  CRECI'S  day  of  great  renown, 
When  folly  wrought  the  lilies  fell  mischance  (l), 
The  victor  on  the  fifth  day  sat  him  down 
Before  the  ramparts  of  this  key  of  FRANCE  (2). 
JOHN  of  VIENNE  then  govern'd  in  the  town  ; 
Than  whom  a  bolder  knight  ne'er  shiver'd  lance. 
So,  hopeless  to  achieve  the  place  by  storm, 
The  British  king  laid  siege  to  it  in  form. 

XCV. 

"  He  cast  intrenchments  on  each  landward  side, 
And  built  a  town  of  huts  to  hold  his  men, 
Where  winter's  sleet  and  rain  might  be  defy'd  ; 
For  autumn  weather  was  commencing  then. 
The  CALAISANS  with  food  were  well  supply'd 
By  sea  ;   but  when  this  came  to  EDWARD'S  ken, 
He  rais'd  a  wooden  castle  'twixt  the  shore 
And  town,  and  intercepted  every  store. 

(i)  The  ENGLISH  owed  their  success  in  the  battle  of  CRECI,  not 
more  to  the  prudence  and  valor  of  their  sovereign,  and  the  skilful 
disposition  of  his  slender  forces,  than  to  the  impetuosity,  over- 
confidence,  and  want  of  discipline  of  the  enemy,  whose  very  num- 
bers, under  their  mismanagement,  were  a  material  cause  of  their 
defeat,  and  certainly,  when  once  the  fortune  of  the  day  had  turned 
against  them,  rendered  it  irretrievable.  HUME  has  therefore  said, 
that  "  the  whole  "  affair  was  "  rather  a  rout  than  a  battle." 

(a)  The  battle  of  CRECI  was  fought  on  a  Saturday,  and,  on 
Thursday  of  the  next  week,  EDWARD,  whose  promptness  in  action 
(that  great  requisite  in  a  commander)  was  never  anywhere  more 
conspicuous  than  in  FRANCE,  appeared  before  the  walls  of  CALAIS. 


OF  CALAIS.  91 

XCVI. 

"  And  now  began  the  leagur'd  to  despair. 
No  succor  from  king  PHILIP  seem'd  at  hand. 
In  little  time,  so  scanty  grew  their  fare, 
The  famine  would  be  more  than  they  could  stand. 
Y"et  all  the  useless  mouths  they  number'd  there 
Had  been  expell'd,  by  DE  VIENNE'S  command  ; 
(All  whom  the  royal  BRITON  fed,  men  say, 
And  pitying  sent,  with  money,  on  their  way.) 

XCVII. 

"  Nor  when  at  length  the  citizens  descry'd, 
From  their  beleagur'd  walls,  the  white  tents  spread, 
Upon  the  hill  of  Sangate,  far  and  wide, 
Which  told  them  of  an  army  thither  led 
To  raise  the  siege  and  combat  on  their  side, 
Did  Hope  long  flatter  them  ;   for  EDWARD  sped 
A  force  to  guard  the  approaches  to  the  town 
And  keep  the  hostile  FRENCH  from  coming  down. 

XCVIII. 

"  The  passes  of  approach  were  only  two  ; 
One  by  the  downs  ;  the  other  o'er  a  swamp 
Spann'd  by  a  single  bridge,  the  which  a  few, 
But  chosen  spirits,  of  right  valiant  stamp, 
Maintain'd  with  ease.     So  after  much  ado 
Of  parley,  and  some  fight,  the  FRENCH  decamp, 
Retire  to  AMIENS,  are  disbanded  there, 
And  leave  the  CALAISANS  to  their  despair. 


92  THE  SIEGE 

XCIX. 

"  Upon  the  ramparts,  for  his  townsmen's  sake, 
And  at  their  prayer,  stood  then  the  bold  VIENNE, 
And  made  a  sign  for  parley.     Thus  he  spake, 
To  the  deputed  BRITONS  :   '  Gentlemen, 
Our  lord  and  sovereign  set  us  here  to  take 
Good  care  of  this  his  town  and  castle.     Then, 
Being  strong,  we  did  so,  and  should  do  so  still, 
But  that  the  means  are  wanting  to  our  will. 


C. 


"  {  Go  tell  your  king,  whose  gallantry  we  know, 
We  have  done  our  best,  but  now  can  do  no  more, 
Yet  feel  a  hope  his  clemency  will  show 
Compassion,  and  that,  seeing  we  give  o'er 
Into  his  hands  the  town,  he  will  forego 
All  vengeance  meditated  on  the  score 
Of  past  resistance,  and  dismiss  us  free, 
To  seek  a  new  home  where'er  that  shall  be. 


CI. 


"  '  His  loss,  our  town  will  quit  it,  and  our  treasure. 
To  which  Sir  WALTER  MANNY  (of  the  two  (i) 
Sent  to  VIENNE)  reply 'd  :   '  Our  master's  pleasure 
Is  known  to  us  ;   and  thus  it  is  in  few  :  — 
The  king  is  wroth  with  you  beyond  all  measure, 
And  will  not  hear  of  terms.     Without  ado, 
You  must  submit  ;  and,  as  may  be  his  will, 
Some  he  will  put  to  ransom,  others  kill.' 

(i)  Sir  WALTER  MANNY  and  the  lord  BASSET.     FROISSARD. 


OF   CALAIS. 

CII. 

"  Then  answer'd  DE  VIENNE.     Thus  answer'd  he  : 
'  Too  hard  are  these  conditions.     We  be  here 
Not  many  knights  and  squires,  who  've  done  as  ye 
In  a  like  case  had  done,  and  though  severe 
Have  been  our  sufferings,  yet  prepar'd  are  we 
To  brave  the  extremest  ills  that  men  can  bear, 
Before  the  merest  hind  that  mans  our  wall 
Shall  fare  worse  than  the  best  among  us  all. 

cm. 

"  '  I  therefore  beg  you  would  return  and  crave 
Compassion  for  us,  which,  for  that  I  know 
Your  king  is  great  of  mind  as  well  as  brave, 
I  trust  he  will,  through  GOD'S  dear  mercy,  show.' 
Return 'd  the  knights,  and  pray'd  the  king  to  wave 
His  purpose  ;   but  the  monarch  answer'd,  no. 
Then  said  Sir  WALTER,  full  of  grief  and  shame, 
'  My  lord,  you  may  in  this  be  much  to  blame. 

CIV. 

"  '  Hereafter,  if  you  send  us  to  maintain 

A  town  or  castle,  we  shall  have  less  heart, 

Seeing  that  if  this  people's  prayer  be  vain, 

And  you  should  slay  them  for  the  valiant  part 

And  loyal  they  have  acted,  it  is  plain 

The  FUENCII  will  do  the  like,  should  chance  impart 

A  like  occasion  'gainst  us.'     Gave  accord 

The  barons  round  the  throne.     Then  thus  their  lord 


94  THE  SIEGE 


cv. 


"  '  I  am  not,  gentlemen,  so  obstinate 
Against  the  general  will  to  set  my  face. 
Return,  Sir  WALTER,  to  the  town,  and  state 
This  to  the  governor  :  the  only  grace 
He  may  expect  is,  if,  to  avert  the  fate 
Which  hangs  o'er  all,  six  persons  of  the  place, 
From  among  those  the  townsmen  count  their  best, 
Shall  give  themselves,  atonement  for  the  rest. 

CVI. 

"  'The  six,  bare-headed,  and  with  naked  feet, 
With  halters  round  their  necks,  the  city's  keys 
Borne  in  their  hands,  shall  come  before  my  seat, 
And  yield  themselves,  to  suffer  what  I  please. 
The  rest  shall,  thereupon,  forgiveness  meet.' 
Back  to  the  town  Sir  WALTER  carry 'd  these 
Conditions,  where  VIENNE  was  waiting  still, 
Upon  the  battlements,  the  victor's  will. 

CVII. 

"  Straight  to  the  market-place  went  DE  VIENNE. 
The  bell  was  rung,  and  at  the  alarum  came 
All  classes  of  the  people,  women,  men, 
The  young,  the  old,  all  but  the  infirm  and  lame, 
To  learn  the  fate  that  waited  them  ;   and  when 
The  cruel  news  was  told,  so  sad  the  exclaim 
Which  rose  from  the  despairing  crowd,  that  more 
Than  one  then  wept  who  'd  shed  no  tear  before. 


OF  CALAIS.  '95 

CVIII. 

"  Even  down  VIENNE'S  bold  cheek  the  heart's  warm  rain 

Shower'd  fast  and  big."  —  Here  paus'd  that  valet  rare  ; 

For  now  our  couple  with  the  porters  gain 

The  inn  they  seek,  and  FELIX  must  have  care 

To  expedite  those  matters  which  detain 

Your  new-come  traveller,  and  then  repair 

To  CARRYL'S  chamber,  where  the  youth  's  preparing 

Before  his  soup  to  take  a  little  airing. 

CIX. 

Not  for  the  air,  (he  'd  had  enough  at  sea,) 

But  to  kill  time,  which  even  Carryls  feel, 

When  in  some  dull  strange  town  they  chance  to  be, 

Condemn'd  to  wait,  and  waiting  for  their  meal, 

An  enemy  that  will  not  lightly  flee, 

Nor  let  them  either  from  the  combat  steal. 

Besides,  our  hero  really  had  in  view 

To  stretch  his  lirnbs,  and  something  else  to  do. 


CX. 


Accordingly,  with  FELIX,  from  the  hotel 
He  sally 'd  out,  directed  by  a  plan 
They  had  of  CALAIS,  and  I  know  not  well 
Why  on  the  street,  wherein  Hotel  Dessin 
Was  printed  on  the  chart,  his  eyes  first  fell  ; 
But  thitherward  he  turn'd.     Meanwhile,  his  man 
Resum'd,  as  on  they  move  with  paces  slow, 
His  story  of  five  hundred  years  ago. 


96  THE  SIEGE 

CXI. 

"  The  city,  I  have  said,  was  in  despair  ; 
When  rose  the  wealthiest  of  the  town,  and  said, 
(His  name  is  written  Euslache  de  Sainl-Pierre  :) 
'  It  were  a  pity  that  for  lack  of  bread 
This  crowd  should  perish,  if  a  few  may  bear 
The  grief  of  all,  and  suffer  in  their  stead. 
Believing  I  shall  find  GOD'S  grace,  I  name 
Myself  the  first,  of  those  the  ENGLISH  claim.' 

CXU. 

"  EUSTACE  was  all  but  worshipp'd  ;  many  fell 

Down  at  his  feet,  and  bath'd  them  with  their  tears. 

All  that  men  want,  not  less  in  good  than  ill, 

Is  but  example  ;  many  an  act  appears 

Too  loftv  even  to  attempt,  until 

Some  valiant  spirit  achieves  it,  when  the  fears 

Of  thousands  Emulation  scatters  fast. 

He  that  first  dumb  the  Alps  was^not  the  last. 

CXIII. 

11  Five  others,  one  by  one,  of  equal  station, 
Offer'd  themselves,  to  share  the  good  man's  fate. 
The  number  thus  complete,  mid  lamentation 
From  the  vast  crowd  that  on  the  martyrs  wait, 
And  bless  them,  yet  bewail  their  situation, 
The  lord  VIENNE  conducts  them  to  the  gate, 
Thence  to  the  barriers,  where  Sir  WALTER  stands, 
And  there  consigns  them  to  the  BRITON'S  hands. 


OF   CALAIS.  97 

CXIV. 

"  '  As  governor  of  CALAIS,'  (such  his  speech,) 
:  And  with  the  inhabitants'  consent,  to  you 
These  six  I  do  deliver,  who  are  each 
Of  the  most  wealthy,  and  respected  too, 
Among  us.     I  most  earnestly  beseech 
You,  sir,  of  your  great  gentleness,  to  sue 
The  king  for  mercy,  that  they  may  not  die.' 
To  which  Sir  WALTER  MANNY  made  reply  : 

cxv. 

"  '  My  sovereign's  will  I  know  not,  tow'rds  these  men  ; 

But  in  their  aid  my  service  shall  be  lent 

Rest  sure.'     The  barriers  were  open'd  then. 

The  six  advance  unto  the  royal  tent  ; 

And  back  unto  the  town  rides  DE  VIENNE. 

And  now  into  the  royal  presence  went 

Sir  WALTER,  follow'd  by  the  six,  who  kneeling, 

With  hands  uplifted,  and  with  eyes  appealing, 

CXVI. 

"  Thus  said  :   '  Most  gallant  king,  lo,  at  your  feet, 
Six  citizens  of  CALAIS,  with  the  keys 
Of  town  and  castle,  who  have  come  to  meet 
Whatever  penalty  your  grace  shall  please, 
Atonement  for  the  city,  yet  entreat, 
With  humble  hearts,  and  on  their  bended  knees, 
You  will  in  your  great  nobleness  extend 
Compassion,  and  your  heart  to  mercy  lend.' 
9 


98  THE  SIEGE 

CXVII. 

"The  barons,  knights,  and  squires,  assembled  there, 

Were  mov'd  with  pity  at  so  sad  a  sight ; 

But  the  king  ey'd  the  men  with  sullen  air, 

And  order'd  them  to  be  dispatch'd  outright. 

In  vain  his  servants  pray'd  him  to  forbear  ; 

He  heeded  not.     Then  spake  that  valiant  knight, 

Sir  WALTER  MANNY,  and  said  :   '  My  liege  and  king, 

Let  me  beseech  you  not  to  do  this  thing  ! 

CXVIII. 

"  '  Wide  are  you  known  for  nobleness  of  heart. 

O  stain  not  by  this  act  your  just  renown  ! 

If,  for  the  lofty  and  intrepid  part 

These  men  have  volunteer'd  to  save  their  town, 

You  slay  them,  't  will  be  bruited  you  depart 

From  rectitude,  and  are  remorseless  grown.' 

'  So  be  it,'  was  the  monarch's  cold  reply  ; 

'  Give  orders  that  the  headsman  come  :  they  die  ! ' 

CXIX. 

"  At  this  dread  moment,  when  suspense  seem'd  o'er, 
The  queen,  then  greatly  gone  in  pregnancy, 
Fell  on  her  knees,  and  said,  '  With  peril  sore, 
Ah,  gentle  sir,  since  I  have  cross'd  the  sea, 
No  favor  have  I  ask'd.     I  now  implore, 
For  CHRIST'S  sweet  sake,  and  for  your  love  to  me, 
Your  grace  to  have  compassion  on  these  men.' 
She  wept.     The  king  look'd  on,  long  silent  ;  then, 


OF  CALAIS.  99 

cxx. 

"  '  Ah  me,  fair  lady  !  '  (thus  the  monarch  spake  ;) 
'  I  would  that  anywhere  you  'd  been  but  here  ! 
I  may  not  slight  your  dear  entreaty.     Take 
These  men,  and  as  shall  best  to  you  appear 
So  use  them  ;  they  are  pardon'd  for  your  sake.' 
To  her  pavilion  with  right  gladsome  cheer 
PHILIPPA  led  the  six,  their  generous  deed 
Extoll'd  as  it  deserv'd,  then  had  them  freed 

CXXI. 

"  From  the  degrading  halter,  saw  them  fed, 

New  cloth'd  them,  and  to  each  (a  mark  of  grace) 

Six  nobles  gave,  and  caus'd  them  to  be  led 

Safe  from  the  camp,  (i)  And  here  's  the  market-place," 

(i)  Able  historians,  including  HUME,  have  doubted  the  absolute 
truth  of  this  adventure  of  the  six  citizens;  and  why  ?  Simply,  be- 
cause it  rests  upon  the  sole  authority  of  FROISSARD.  M.  LEVESQ.UE 
assures  us,  with  some  heat,  that  an  incident  so  remarkable  would 
not  have  been  omitted  in  the  Chronicle  of  St.  Denis,  and  other  con- 
temporary histories,  had  it  been  generally  known;  and, if  known  at 
all,  it  must  have  been  known  widely.  Yet  the  great  pestilence 
which  ravaged  all  EUROPE,  shortly  after  this  very  siege  of  Calais, 
is  scarcely  alluded  to  by  FROISSARD,  and  not  at  all,  if  we  be  to  take 
the  Chronicles  as  printed  in  the  French  editions  * ;  whereas  all 
the  other  chroniclers  describe  it  with  some  particularity.  Now,  if 
FROISSARD  thought  of  little  or  no  historical  importance  what  in 
their  eyes  was  matter  of  great  moment,  why  should  not  they  have 
slighted  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  worthy  of  a  record  ?  The  taste 

*  FROISSAUD'S  brief  allusion  to  the  plague  is  found  in  the  Additions,  from 
MSS.  in  the  Hafod  Library,  which  appear  in  the  translation  of  Mr.  JOHNES. 


100  THE  SIEGE 

Quoth  FELIX,  "  where  this  EUSTACE'  bust,  't  is  said, 
Adorns  the  town-hall's  front,  beside  the  face 

of  the  latter  would  be  naturally  and  irresistibly  directed  to  this  ro- 
mantic incident  of  the  siege,  while  the  unvaried  and  depressing 
horrors  of  a  pestilence  would  present  nothing  to  interest  an  imagi- 
nation, that  delighted  to  revel  in  the  more  brilliant  and  exciting 
scenes  of  battle  which  the  age  was  constantly  furnishing.  Besides, 
not  to  predicate  any  thing  upon  the  tastes,  however  well  ascer- 
tained, of  an  individual  so  many  ages  dead,*  it  may  be  asserted 
generally,  that  the  omission  of  any  single  incident  by  any  one  or 
more  obscure  chroniclers  is  no  proof  that  it  did  not  occur,  or  that 
its  details  have  been  falsified  by  another  contemporary  writer  in 
whose  memoirs  it  does  occur.  As  for  the  ENGLISHMAN,  ROBERT  of 
AVESBURY,  might  he  not  have  omitted  such  a  story  as  being  little 
to  the  credit  of  his  sovereign  ?  t 

Again,  we  are  told  that  the  severity  of  EDWARD  in  the  case  of 

*  From  the  accounts  he  has  given  of  himself  in  various  places,  we  learn  that 
he  was  all  his  life  a  lover  of  the  chase,  of  music,  festivals,  dress,  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  table,  of  wine,  and  ofivomen:  (See  the  memoir  by  SAINTE  PALAYE, 
or  any  good  biographical  dictionary.)  This  would  be  the  very  character  to 
pass  over  so  lightly  an  account  of  a  pestilence.  Besides,  the  canon  of  CHIMAY 
sat  down  to  his  task  with  the  very  purpose,  as  his  opening  words  assure  us,  of 
describing  exclusively  deeds  of  arms,  the  gallant  enterprises  of  heroes  and  of 
their  companions,  all  things  connected  wiih  the  wars  of  that  age  of  chivalry, — 
in  short,  what  may  in  general  be  termed  the  romantic  part  of  the  history  of  his 
time.  A  pestilence,  however  fearful,  could  have  no  place  in  such  a  plan. 
When  BOCCACCIO,  with  his  eye  upon  Thuc\dides,  gives  us  a  minute  detail  of 
this  same  calamity  as  it  visited  the  plains  of  ITALY,  it  is  because  it  forms  the 
very  ground-work  of  his  story,  the  cause  which  is  supposed  to  bring  together 
the  gay  relaters  of  the  hundred  novels. 

t  "This  story  of  the  six  burgesses  of  CALAIS,  like  all  other  extraordinary 

p.  167,  who  is  particular  in  his  narration  of  the  surrender  of  CALAIS,  says 
nothing  of  it,  and,  on  the  contrary,  extols  IN  GENERAL  the  king^s  generosity 
and  lenity  to  the  inhabitants."  HUME.  Note. 

The  last  clause  of  this  passage  may  help  one  to  form  an  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion.—  By  the  by,  it  is  odd  that  HUME  should  attempt  to  draw  a  moral  conclu- 
sion from  an  incident  which  he  considers  problematical.  See  Hist,  of  England, 
chap,  xv.,  concluding  paragraph.  His  inference  is  not  quite  philosophical  it  is 
true  ;  but  even  if  it  were,  it  must  full  to  pieces  unless  based  upon  established 
fact. 


OF  CALAIS.  101 

Of  Guise's Hem ! "  He  gave  his  throat  a  clearing ; 

For  CARRYL  was  no  longer  within  hearing. 

the  six  burgesses  is  altogether  inconsistent  with  the  acknowledged 
generosity  of  his  character.*  Yet  it  was  by  order  of  this  same  ED- 
WARD, only  a  twelvemonth  previausly,  that  quarter  was  refused  on 
the  day  of  Creci,  and  on  the  morning  which  succeeded  that  battle. 
Nay,  we  are  told  that  on  this  latter  day,  which  was  foggy,  artifice 
was  resorted  to  in  order  to  decoy  the  straggling  FRENCH  to  the 
English  stations,  where  they  were  massacred  in  what  may  well  be 
called  cold  blood,  since  quarter  was  refused  alike  to  those  who  sur- 
rendered and  to  those  who  fought.  To  argue  upon  the  truth  of  an 
isolated  fact  from  a  man's  general  character  is  to  make  no  allow- 
ance for  human  inconstancy.  Moreover,  the  mixture  of  great  bar- 
barity with  great  generosity,  not  unknown  in  the  heroes  of  every 
time,  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  particular  feature  of  the  times  of 
which  we  are  speaking ;  and  the  same  conqueror,  who  displayed 
himself  to  those  who  were  expelled  from  CALAIS  so  truly  generous, 
(truly,  because  their  expulsion  from  the  place  was  made  for  the 
very  purpose  of  enabling  the  governor  to  prolong  the  defence,) 
might  well  be  so  exasperated  by  the  duration  of  the  siege,  and  by 
his  loss  of  time,  and  men,  and  money,  as  to  wish  to  visit  on  the 
heads  of  some  few  the  punishment  he  had  reserved  perhaps  for  all.t 
His  inhumanity  was  but  part  of  his  humanity  ;  to  have  been  more 
humane  had  been  (taking  the  age  into  consideration)  almost  super- 
human, and  would  certainly  have  entitled  the  royal  victor  to  be 
ranked  in  nobleness  of  heart  above  the  conquerors  of  all  ages, 
modern  as  well  as  remote.  Let  me  add  that  this  seeming  incon- 
sistency of  EDWARD'S,  which  is  considered  as  making  questionable 

*  See,  on  this  page,  note  f. 

t  In  1370,  when  CHARLES,  then  king  of  FEANCE,  was  rapidly  regaining 
his  conquered  provinces,  EDWARD  was  so  irritated  that  he  threatened  to  put 
to  death  all  the  French  hostages  that  remained  in  his  hands.  He  did  not  in- 
deed put  this  savage  threat  into  execution :  neither  did  he  maintain  his  purpose 
against  the  CALAISANS  ;  but  the  mere  conception  of  such  a  deed  was  still  more 
ungenerous  and  cruel  in  the  former  case  than  in  the  latter. 


102  EUSTACE  SUPERSEDED. 

CXXII. 

Just  as  the  hunchback's  story  found  an  ending, 
They  reach'd  the  market-place,  as  we  have  seen  ; 

the  entire  story,  is,  to  me,  no  little  argument  of  its  verity.  It  is 
representing  man  as  he  is,  as  he  has  been,  as  he  ever  will  be. 

Well,  EDWARD  will  not  listen  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  servants. 
This  too  is  natural,  and  for  two  reasons  :  the  first,  that  when  a  man 
is  both  angry  and  in  the  wrong,  advice  and  remonstrance  only  ex- 
asperate him  and  render  him  more  obstinate ;  the  second,  that  no 
one  loves  dictation,  certainly  no  king,  and  that  pride  alone  is  suf- 
ficient to  deter  one  from  listening  to  those  whose  very  advice  shows 
them  to  be  conscious  at  once  of  his  unreasonableness  and  of  their 
own  superiority  in  judgment.  What  now  if  we  should  say,  that 
the  monarch  was  not  angry  after  all,  but  only  affected  severity,  in 
order  to  punish  by  the  terror  of  impending  execution  those,  whom, 
because  of  the  town  they  represented,  he  thought,  with  the  reason- 
ing of  a  man,  and  a  conqueror,  and  above  all  a  king,  it  was  not 
right  to  pardon  absolutely  ?  The  supposition  implies  nothing  im- 
probable ;  though  myself  I  do  not  think  it  reasonable.* 

Next  the  Queen  is  brought  before  us,  and  the  censor  pronounces 
it  unworthy  of  the  monarch,  and  therefore  unlikely,  that  he  should 
have  granted  to  her  entreaties  what  he  denied  to  the  merits  of  the 
burgesses,  and  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  nobles.  It  were  a  suf- 
ficient answer  to  say,  that  when  a  man  is  beginning  to  be  beaten, 
even  in  an  argument,  the  last  person  that  assails  him  will  have  the 
credit  of  the  victory.  But  the  tears  of  the  queen,  her  imploring 
posture,  her  artful  yet  gentle  appeal  to  his  favor,  her  touching  ad- 
juration, the  delicate  condition  in  which  he  saw  her,  these  surely 

*  EDWARD  was  always  more  generous  than  just ;  and,  as  a  king,  he  was  cer- 
tainly arbitrary.  This  is  fully  proved  in  the  summary  which  HUME  has  given 
of  the  principal  events  of  his  reian. 

P.  S.  VOLTAIRE,  I  perceive,  was  of  the  opinion  that  EDWARD  did  not  mean 
to  put  the  men  to  death.  But  in  founding  this  supposition  on  the  known  gen- 
erosity of  the  king's  character,  he  forgot,  I  think,  his  philosophy  in  that  very 
skepticism  which  in  other  cases  gave  it  birth. 


THE  RENCOUNTER.  103 

When  suddenly  our  hero  sees,  descending 

The  town-hall  steps, —  not  EUSTACE, —  nor  the  Queen, — 

would  be  more  powerful  over  the  mind  of  EDWARD,  especially  if  at 
the  moment  wavering,  than  the  counsel  of  bearded  and  warlike 
men,  which  in  itself,  because  they  were  his  subjects  and  vassals, 
could  not  but  be  offensive.  Besides  it  was  of  a  piece  with  the 
chivalry  of  the  day,*  as  it  belongs  to  the  gallantry  of  all  ages,  to 
give  to  women  what  is  refused  to  justice  and  to  mercy.  And  if  it 
were  not,  did  not  CAIUS  MARCIUS  do  as  much,  and  more  ?  and  was 
EDWARD  more  resolute,  a  better  soldier,  or  a  loftier  spirit,  than  the 
conqueror  of  CORIOLI  ?  I  think  it  is  not  anywhere  so  written. 

To  finish  the  arguments  of  M.  LEVESQ.UE,  he  sees  too  an  incon- 
sistency in  the  queen's  conduct,  because  she  afterwards  obtained 
the  confiscation  of  the  house  of  JOHN  DAIRE,  one  of  the  six,  and  a 
further  inconsistency  in  the  acts  of  EDWARD,  because  he  loads  with 
gifts  the  same  EUSTACE  DE  SAINT-PIERRE  whom  he  was  so  near 
beheading;  and  he  convicts  SAINT-PIERRE  of  treachery  to  his 
country,  because  he  accepted  the  presents  of  the  conqueror,  and 
deigned  to  live  in  the  city  whence  his  fellow-townsmen  had  been 
almost  all  expelled.  The  queen,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  a  woman; 
her  availing  herself  of  an  unavoidable  calamity,  and  taking  for  her 
own  use  the  property  which  must  have  been  confiscated,  if  not  to 
herself  to  others,  was  no  reason  why  she  should  consent  to  see  the 
owner's  head  struck  ofF,  if  prayers  and  tears  would  keep  it  on 
his  shoulders.  The  very  generosity  of  EDWARD  must  have  made 
him  love  the  nobleness  of  SAINT-PIERRE,  when  once  forgiven  ;  and 
to  wish  to  secure  to  himself  a  soul  of  such  a  stamp  was  as  natural 

*  HUME  says,  "This  age  was  the  reign  of  chivalry  and  gallantry."  I  need 
not  remind  the  reader  that  it  was  EDWABD  III.  who  instituted  the  order  of  the 
Garter,  the  origin  of  which  badge  of  chivalry,  though  it  rests  upon  less  authority 
than  the  story  of  the  six  burgesses  of  CALAIS,  (being,  I  believe,  a  mere  tradition,) 
yet  like  the  latter  bears  with  it  its  own  evidence  of  authenticity.  EDWAHD 
•was  in  fact  a  true  knight,  as  distinguished  for  gallantry  as  for  courage  ;  and 
there  is  not  on  record  a  hero  of  the  time,  including  the  very  best  that  fall  under 
that  name,  as  Du  GUESCLIN,  CHANDOS,  and  even  the  prince  of  WALES  himself, 
that  would  not  have  deemed  it  a  disgrace  to  refuse  to  a  kneeling  and  weeping 
princess  a  favor  much  more  inconsistent  with  justice  and  humanity  than  that 
for  which  PHILIPPA  supplicated. 


104  THE  RENCOUJNTER. 

But  living  BLANCHE.     He  could  not  think  of  lending 
Attention  now  to  FELIX'  prose,  I  ween. 

as  for  SAINT-PIERRE  to  feel  grateful  lo  the  hand  which  had  spared 
him  when  in  its  power,  and  proud  of  the  attention  shown  him  by 
a  monarch,  and  of  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  a  victorious  enemy. 
That  this  trust  was  to  the  prejudice  of  his  own  countrymen,  and 
that  the  benefits  received  from  EDWARD  were  to  recompense  him 
for  a  breach  of  natural  faith,  is  nowhere  shown,  nor  will  a  sneer  be 
allowed  to  be  an  argument  to  prove  it. 

Finally,  the  minuteness  with  which  FROISSARD  has  detailed  the 
whole  incident  in  question,  the  simplicity  of  his  language  and  its 
adherence  to  nature,  the  very  conduct  of  the  characters  in  that  little 
drama,  (and  which,  as  we  have  seen,  has  been  objected  to  as  in- 
consistent !)  all  these  particulars  are  internal  evidences  of  the  truth 
of  the  story.  Indeed,  if  it  be  an  invention  of  the  chronicler,  or 
an  enlargement  and  embellishment  of  some  more  meagre  and  less 
brilliant  circumstances,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  allow,  that  from, 
the  sacred  hand  which  penned  the  tale  of  JOSEPH,  down  to  the 
elegant  biographer  of  FERDINAND  and  ISABELLA,  there  has  never 
lived  the  historian  that  could  match  him  in  the  counterfeit  of  na- 
ture, and  that  even  the  dramatist  SHAKSPEARE  himself,  in  adapting 
the  discourse  of  his  real  characters  to  the  fictitious  scenes  in  which 
they  figure,  was  but  a  fool  to  this  same  simple  JOHN  FROISSARD. 

P.  S.  Since  I  have  carried  this  note  to  such  an  unintended  length, 
it  will  but  little  more  fatigue  the  reader  if  I  add  the  following  re- 
marks. FROISSARD  is  very  generally,  though  perhaps  unjustly,  ac- 
cused by  the  FRENCH  of  partiality  to  the  ENGLISH.  If  indeed  the 
historian  were  in  the  interests  of  the  latter  nation  more  than  in  those 
of  any  of  the  various  others  with  which  he  had  in  turn  to  do,  he 
could  never  have  been  more  so  than  when  he  presented  the  first 
part  of  his  chronicles  to  PHILIPPA.  It  is  in  this  part  that  the  siege 
of  CALAIS  is  recounted.  How  comes  it  that  he  should  have  told  a 
circumstance  so  injurious  to  the  character  of  EDWARD  ;  a  story 
which  M.  LEVESQUE  would  have  to  be  of  his  invention  or  of  his 
embellishment  ?  There  would  have  been  little  wisdom  in  carrying 
his  performance  to  a  court  where  there  were  so  many  persons  who 


THE  RENCOUNTER.  105 

To  con  the  poetry  of  BLANCHE'S  eyes 

Is  sweeter  task.     So  o'er  the  square  he  flies. 

could  not  fail  to  know  at  once,  from  their  own  experience,  the  truth 
or  falsehood  of  every  particular  therein  recounted.  Now  the  siege 
of  CALAIS  happened  when  FROISSARD  was  but  ten  years  old.  The 
first  part  of  the  Chronicle,  he  tells  us  at  its  very  outset,  he  copied 
from  the  writings  left  by  JOHN  LE  BEL  (which  have  not  come  down 
to  us).  Can  there  be  any  doubt  lhat  this  romantic  incident,  among 
others,  had  a  place  in  the  narrative  of  his  predecessor?  FROISSARD, 
therefore,  would  not  at  any  rate  be  the  inventor  of  this  story  ;  and 
his  contemporaries  would  only  have  omitted  it,  simply  because  it 
fell  not  into  their  hands.  Upon  all  that  part  of  his  history  which 
he  borrowed  from  another,  he  professes,  and  is  known,  to  have  be- 
stowed unusual  pains,  revising  and  correcting  it  several  limes,  in 
his  great  regard  for  accuracy.  (See  p.  xxx,  note,  of  the  1st  Vol.  of 
JOHNES'S  Froissard,  ed.  of  1839,) 

In  truth,  the  same  praise  may  be  bestowed  upon  FROISSARD  that 
is  given  to  the  historian  whom  in  some  particulars  he  much  resem- 
bles, HERODOTUS  ;  a  sincere  wish,  and  a  firm  intention  to  do  jus- 
tice, subject  to  the  infirmity  perhaps  of  occasional  prejudice,  which 
will  influence  all  men  at  times,  and  of  a  credulity  to  which  the  age 
wherein  he  lived  was  prone.  No  historian  perhaps  ever  existed 
that  shows  so  little  partiality  of  any  kind,  or  whose  narratives,  how- 
ever romantic,  have  less  of  the  coloring  of  exaggeration.  "  Le  bon 
FROISSARD,"  says  one  who  was  well  calculated  to  appreciate,  at  its 
proper  value,  the  simplicity  and  ingenuousness  of  the  Herodotus  of 
chivalry,  "  le  bon  FROISSARD  a  marche  en  son  entreprise  d'une  si 
franche  natfvete,  qu'ayant  faict  une  faute,  il  ne  craint  aucunement 
de  la  recognoistre  et  corriger,  en  1'endroit  ou  il  en  a  este  adverty, 
et  nous  represente  la  diversite  mesme  des  bruits  qui  couroyent,  et 
les  differens  rapports  qu'on  luy  faisoit.  C'est  la  matiere  de  1'His- 
toire  nu£  et  informe:  chacun  en  peut  faire  son  profit  autant  qu'il  a 
d'entendement."  This  is  a  character  of  no  little  candor.  See  Essais 
de  Montaigne,  Liv.  ii.  chap.  10.  Tom.  iii.  p.  81,  ed.  de  COSTE,  or  (at 
p.  xli.  Vol.  i.  of  JOHNES'S  Froissard,  ed.  of  1839)  the  observations  of 
SAINTE-PALAYE,  who  has  cited  the  same  passage. 


106  CARRYL  OFFERS  HIS  SERVICES. 

CXXIII. 

I  mean  to  say,  he  quicken'd  his  slow  pace, 

As  far  as  pride,  or  Cupid,  would  allow. 

He  saw  the  blood  run  riot  in  the  face 

Of  BLANCHE,  as  soon  as  near  enough  to  bow. 

But  she,  who  was  all  ease,  if  not  all  grace, 

Took  care  her  lips  should  not  as  much  avow,  — 

So  straight  assail'd  him  in  her  usual  fashion, 

To  show  her  nerves  were  nowise  shook  by  passion. 

CXXIV. 

"  She  'd  rambled  out,"  she  said,  "  to  see  the  city  ; 
Suppos'd  that  the  signor  had  done  the  same  ; 
But  fear'd  that  there  was  nothing  very  pretty  ; 
And  fancy'd  that  the  town  look'd  mean  and  tame  ; 
That  on  the  whole  't  was  rather  out  of  pity 
She  'd  suffer'd  one  they  cicerone  name 
In  her  own  land,  and  whom  he  'd  found  beside  her, 
About  so  prison-like  a  place  to  guide  her. 

CXXV. 

"But  then,  the  valet (i)  serv'd  as  a  protection, 

An  escort  which  she  could  not  do  without  ; 

And,  where  there  was  no  room  to  make  selection, 

One  priz'd  the  service  of  the  dullest  lout." 

Therewith,  our  hero  begg'd  to  take  direction 

Of  her  perambulations  round  about. 

"  He  knew  no  more  of  CALAIS  than  did  she  ; 

But  that  was  nought,  where  there  was  nought  to  see. 

(i)  Valets  de  place  is  the  name  of  these  persons. 


THE  PROMENADE.  107 

CXXVI. 

"  He  would  advise  her  therefore  to  dismiss 
Her  servant,  and  take  up  with  him  instead." 
Archly  the  little  ROMAN  smil'd  at  this  ; 
"  His  counsel  was  not  scriptural,"  she  said  ; 
"They  might  perchance  their  way  together  miss  ; 
The  blind  should  never  by  the  blind  be  led. 
Would  he  join  forces  ?  she  was  nothing  loath  ; 
The  man  could  go  before,  and  serve  for  both." 

CXXVII. 

So  CARRYL  and  BIANCA,  side  by  side, 

Walk'd  on  together,  and  the  guide  before. 

FELIX,  who  'd  linger'd,  for  a  moment  ey'd 

The  group  so  sadly  that  his  eyes  ran  o'er  : 

"  More  love  ?  "  he  mutter'd  to  himself,  and  sigh'd  ; 

"  More  time  misspent,  more  heart-ache,  and  O  !  more  . . . 

Alas  !  and  yet  so  good  !  '     T  was  all  his  say  : 

He  turn'd  him  round,  and  walk'd  another  way. 

CXXVIII. 

Ere  many  minutes,  ARTHUR  had  succeeded 

In  laughing  his  companion  into  reason. 

In  sober  truth  the  valet  was  not  needed  ; 

He  did  a  something  he  might  charge  his  fees  on,  — 

Show'd  the  few  lions,  but  they  were  not  heeded  ; 

And  all  his  histories  were  out  of  season. 

The  streets  were  straight ;  then  CARRYL  had  his  chart  : 

To  follow  one's  own  nose  was  no  great  art. 


108  GALLANTRY. 

CXXIX. 

So  by  themselves  the  gentle  couple  bent 

Their  footsteps  to  the  ramparts.     Strange  to  say, 

Their  lighter  spirits  for  a  time  seem  spent, 

Now  nothing  interferes  to  balk  their  play. 

With  eyes  cast  down,  they  on  in  silence  went, 

As  they  were  measuring  the  public  way. 

At  length  BIANCA  ask'd,  with  accents  low, 

"How  came  they  first  acquainted  ?  did  he  know  ?  " 

cxxx. 

CARRYL,  albeit  he  felt  a  slight  surprise, 
Thinking  perhaps  she  knew  as  well  as  he, 
Yet  answer 'd  gallantly,  "To  analyse 
Our  pleasures  is  to  set  their  essence  free, 
To  get  at  nothing  ;  which  is  sure  not  wise. 
I  am  too  happy  now,  that  I  should  be 
At  all  tormented  by  a  wish  of  knowing 
To  what  blest  accident  my  joy  is  owing. 

CXXXI. 

"Moreover,"  —  playfully  the  swain  declares,  — 
The  while  his  lip  a  srnile  half-mocking  wore,  — 
"  My  heart,  dear  lady,  just  at  present  swears 
That  it  has  known  you  thirty  years  or  more. 
Pardon  my  memory,  that  no  trace  it  bears 
Of  what  must  thus  have  happen'd  long  before 
Or  you  or  I  was  born.     But  let  me  blame 
The  faithless  creature,  that  she  dropp'd  your  name. 


THE  EXCHANGE.  109 

cxxxir. 

"  In  future,  not  to  trust  to  faith  so  light 

A  charge  so  precious,  suffer  me  to  pray 

That  you  would  condescend  your  name  to  write 

Upon  this  leaf,  or  any  other  way 

Enable  me  in  Memory's  despite 

To  keep  the  recollection  of  this  day 

Secure,  by  knowing  to  whose  grace  I  owe 

A  pleasure  Fortune  does  not  oft  bestow." 

CXXXItl. 

So  saying,  smiling,  with  a  sportive  air, 

Yet  gallantly  withal,  and  with  much  grace, 

The  little  chart,  which  in  his  hand  he  bare, 

CARRYL  transferr'd  to  BLANCHE,  whose  lovely  face 

Blush'd  faintly  like  a  budding  rose,  and  ware 

A  look  of  hesitation,  for  a  space. 

Then,  in  a  hand  not  coarse,  though  bold  and  steady, 

She  wrote  for  ARTHUR  what  we  know  already. 

CXXXIV. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  youth ;  "  and  there ;  a  fair  exchange," 
And  handed  her  a  card  of  his  address. 
BLANCHE  seem'd  to  think  the  whole  proceeding  strange, 
(And,  sooth  to  say,  she  could  not  deem  it  less,) 
But,  being  dispos'd  to  give  his  humor  range, 
With  a  sweet  laugh  that  did  her  thoughts  express 
The  billet  took.     Just  then  a  voice,  quite  near, 
Exclaim'd  in  English,  "  Taking  notes,  too  !    Queer  !  !i 
10 


110  AN  UNPLEASANT  INTERRUPTION. 

CXXXV. 

The  voice  was  neither  pleasant,  nor  refin'd,  — 

Not  bass,  nor  tenor,  bariton,  nor  treble, 

But  a  strange  medley  of  all  four  combin'd, 

That  prov'd  the  owner  was  a  desperate  rebel 

Against  all  harmony  of  every  kind. 

Our  gallant  turn'd,  and  lo,  where  Mr.  PEBBLE  ! 

The  master  of  the  bagpipe  stood  alone, 

And  must  have  meant  for  CARRYL'S  ear  its  drone. 

CXXXVJ. 

"  Sir  !  "  cry'd  our  hero.  —  Not  so  huge  a  leap 

Made  DOIIALICE'S  pony,  when  the  art 

Of  MALAGIGI  caus'd  the  devil  to  creep 

Into  its  bowels  ;  (i)  not,  at  least,  a  start 

So  sudden,  (for  my  Muse  prefers  to  keep 

To  truth  ;)   as  PEBBLE,  when,  on  CARRYL'S  part 

Anticipating  a  more  rude  attack, 

He  leapt,  not  forward  like  the  nag,  but  back. 

(i)  Nel  mansueto  ubino,  che  sul  dosso 
Avea  la  figlia  del  re  Stordilano, 
Fece  entrare  un  degli  angel  di  Minosso 
Sol  con  parole  il  f'rate  di  Viviano : 
E  quel,  che  dianzi  inai  non  s'era  mosso, 
Se  non  quanto  ubbidilo  avea  alia  mano, 
Or  d'  improvviso  spicco  in  aria  un  salto, 
Che  trenla  pie  fu  lungo,  e  sedici  alto. 

Orl.  Furioso,  xxvi.  129. 


ONE  TOO  MANY.  Ill 

CXXXVII. 

At  length  recovering  from  the  sound  and  stroke 

Of  ARTHUR'S  voice  and  ARTHUR'S  flashing  eyes, 

This  other  pibrach  from  the  cornmuse  (l)  broke 

In  tones  of  mingled  terror  and  surprise  : 

"Why  what  's  the  matter  now  ?  "  ('t  was  thus  he  spoke  ;) 

"  I  hope  I  have  offended  in  no  wise  ? 

But  if  I  have,  when  peaceful  my  intent  is, 

I  must,  as  OVID  says,  be  compos  mentis  (2)." 


(1)  Cornmuse  (cornemusc,  Fr.,  cornamusa,  Ital.).     This  name  for 
that  very  ancient  and  classical  instrument,  the  liagpipe,*  was  long 
ago  made  English  by  CHAUCER.     See  the  House  of  Fame,  Bk.  iii. 
128.     The  word  coalesces  well  and  elegantly  with  the  language, 
and  forms  a  useful  synonym  for  the  purposes  of  poetry. 

(2)  The  proficient  on  NERO'S  instrument  must  have  meant  to  use 
the  law-phrase,  non  compos  mentis. 

*  The  precise  antiquity  of  this  rude  instrument  is  not  ascertained,  though  for 
several  reasons  it  may  be  supposed  to  be  considerable.  It  was  known  to  the 
GREEKS  under  the  name  of  doros  (saccus  e  corio  factus,  a  bag  made  of  hide.) 
See  BARTIIOLINUS,  De  Tib.  Pet.  iii.  7,  who  cites  an  epistle  attributed  to  ST. 
JEROME,  where  the  latter  describes  the  instrument  under  the  term  chores 
(which  SAUMAISE  thought  should  be  written  doros).  SUETONIUS,  in  his  Life 
of  NERO  (c.  Ixiv.),  mentions  that  emperor  as  having  vowed  to  act  the  part  of 

and  SENECA,  perhaps,  pithaules  (Epist.  x.  77,))  that  is,  of  a  bagpiper  ;  and  the 
poet  VIRGIL  is  generally  thought  to  allude  to  this  instrument  in  a  descriptive 
periphrasis,  in  his  Copa.  These,  it  will  be  perceived,  are  comparatively  mod- 
ern authorities. 

In  the  Santa-Croce  palace  at  ROME,  there  is  a  low-relief  of  an  ancient  bag- 
pipe, with  a  single  pipe  and  two  reeds.  It  is  mentioned  by  MONTFAUCON, 
BIANCHINI,  and  other  antiquaries.  There  is  a  representation  of  it  likewise  in 
FERKARIO  :  Cost.  Ant.  e  Mod.  —  Europa  iii.  Tav.  121.  On  page  82  (note)  of 
the  same  volume  (e.d  2a.)  we  are  told,  that  the  most  ancient  and  perhaps  the 
only  monument  in  which  is  seen  a  species  of  cornmuse  properly  so  called  it 
a  cammeo  published  by  FICORO.M  ;  Masch.  Seen.  Tav.  83. 


112  THE  BORE. 

CXXXV1II. 

"  Matter  ?  "  quoth  ARTHUR,  but  with  much  ado, 

For  now  he  felt  most  strongly  mov'd  to  laughter  ; 

"  Offended  ?     Pray,  what  interest  have  you 

In  this  young  lady,  that  you  dare,  and  after 

So  very  impudent  a  fashion  too, 

To  interfere  between  us  ?  "     Had  a  rafter 

By  some  rare  chance  then  fallen,  and  PEBBLE  wounded, 

He  had  felt  worse,  but  not  much  worse  confounded. 

CXXXIX. 

"  Lord  !  "  he  exclaim'd,  and  "  Goodness  gracious  me  !  " 

When  seeing  a  smile  on  CARRYL'S  handsome  face, 

He  fell  a  laughing,  and  so  heartily, 

It  actually  convuls'd  him  for  a  space. 

"  I  only  thought,  sir,  that  you  seem'd  to  be, 

As  I,  collecting  notes  about  this  place."  .  .  . 

"  Comparing  them,"  said  ARTHUR,  "  I  suppose." 

Then  PEBBLE  laid  a  finger  on  his  nose  : 

CXL. 

(i  Good  !  Bravo  !  Very  good  ! —    Well,  as  I  say  "  .  .  . 
(CARRYL  turn'd  round.)  "  Do  hear  my  explanation  ! "  .  .  . 
"  I  'm  satisfy'd,"  said  ARTHUR  ;   "  sir,  good  day.  — 
What  would  you  have  ?  "  he  added,  in  vexation, 
And  some  disgust,  as  PEBBLE  stopp'd  the  way, 
And  seiz'd  a  button  to  maintain  his  station  : 
"  The  devil,  sir  !  if  you  must  speak,  be  quick. 
And  speak  in  French,  if  we  're  to  hear  you  speak. 


PEBBLE'S  PERSEVERANCE.  113 

CXLI. 

"  Was  ever  such  an  ass  !  "  he  said  aside, 

In  her  own  tongue,  to  BLANCHE,  who  look'd  ainaz'd, 

And  now  her  escort,  now  the  cockney  ey'd, 

Nor  doubted  that  the  latter  must  be  craz'd. 

But,  when  she  saw  him  walking  by  their  side, 

And  CARRYL'S  bidding  him  speak  French  had  rais'd 

Her  curiosity,  with  secret  mirth 

She  waited  for  the  laboring  mountain's  birth. 

CXLII. 

It  heav'd  ;  it  strain'd  ;  and  lo  !  the  mouse  came  out  : 

"  Je  veux  vous  .  .  .  je  vous 'T  is  no  use  to  try  ! 

I  never  really  know  what  I  'm  about 
Whenever,  where  there  's  no  necessity, 
I  travel  from  my  long-accustom'd  route. 
And  put  a  je  for  you,  and  iwis  for  /. 
I  beg,  young  gentleman,  you  '11  not  withstand 
My  speaking  in  a  tongue  I  understand. 

CXLI11. 

"  That  is,  I  mean,  I  manage  with  facility. 
And  if  that  lady  be  the  bar  indeed, 
And  your  request  was  made  in  mere  civility, 
You  can  interpret  me  in  case  of  need  ; 
For  which,  no  doubt,  you  have  the  due  ability." 
"  In  Heaven's  name,"  cry'd  ARTHUR,  "then  proceed  ! 
We  want  to  be  alone,  as  you  should  know. 
In  few  words  then,  and  quick  ;   and  let  us  go." 
10* 


114  THE   HISTORY  OF 

CXLIV. 

As  fly  the  sparkles  from  the  whirling  stone 
Of  the  knife-grinder,  him  whom  CANNING  sung, 
Whose  hat  had  in  't  a  hole,  nor  that  alone, 
But  eke  his  breeches  :  (l)  so,  so  many,  sprung, 
So  fast,  the  tones  from  PEBBLE'S  bagpipe-drone, 
When  CARRYL'S  word  let  loose  his  flying  tongue. 
But  first,  in  such  strange  French  as  made  her  smile, 
He  ask'd  BIANCA'S  patience  for  a  while. 

CXLV. 

He  told,  how  when  he  cross'd  the  narrow  sea 

To  visit  FRANCE,  although  he  had  in  view 

To  make  the  Tour,  and  see  what  others  see, 

And  gratify  his  wife  and  children  too, 

He  with  the  dulce  mix'd  the  ulile, 

And  made  for  two  small  birds  one  Pebble  do  ; 

For  he  was  troubled  with  the  cacoethes  (2) 

And  held  in  hate  the  dark  flood  known  as  Lethe's. 

CXLVI. 

He  said  his  mother,  just  before  his  birth, 
Had  dream'd  she  was  deliver'd  of  a  book, 

(:)     "  Needy  knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order; 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in  't, 
So  have  your  breeches  !  " 

Poetry  of  the  Anti-jacobin.  10. 
(2)  Sc.  scribendi.     Literally,  the  "evil  habit  of  writing.'" 


CICERO  PEBBLE.  115 

Wherein  were  writ  the  strangest  things  on  earth, 
Which  everybody  else  for  nonsense  took  : 
But  merry  jests  were  there  that  woke  her  mirth, 
And  tales  of  blood  her  soul  with  terror  shook  ; 
The  title,  Memoirs,  Essays,  Ballads,  Sketches  ; 
The  frontispiece,  a  woman  in  man's  breeches. 

CXLVII. 

That  as  she  gaz'd,  behold  it  came  to  pass, 

The  woman's  face  with  hair  was  overgrown, 

The  ears  shot  up,  and,  tapering  off  like  grass, 

Became  too  long  for  human  head  to  own. 

The  neighbours  said,  the  child  would  prove  an  ass,  — 

Her  better  half,  an  author  widely  kiiown, 

Who  should  delight  in  things  that  women  use, 

And  have  his  ears  prick'd  always  up  for  news. 

CXLVI1I. 

The  foal  was  dropp'd.     From  ages  long  ago 

The  sire  selected  it  a  mighty  name  ; 

And  the  young  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 

Became  in  later  days  for  letter'd  fame 

A  stubborn  candidate  ;   nor  only  so, 

But  for  all  notoriety  that  came 

Convenient.     Now,  he  was  upon  the  tour, 

To  make  a  book,  like  SAPPHO'S  (l)  should  endure. 

phrase   of   JUVENAL'S.      PEBBLE,   who   had   met   the   expression 
somewhere,  mistakes  it  for  encomium, 
(i)  STRABO'S? 


116  THE  RAMBLER. 

CXLIX. 

Therefore,  no  sooner  had  he  reach'd  the  inn 
Than  out  he  sally'd  with  his  notes  in  hand, 
Determin'd  at  the  entrance  to  begin, 
And  spy  out  every  nuisance  in  the  land, 
And  bring  it  to  account  for  all  its  sin. 
That,  under  the  impression  ARTHUR  plann'd 
The  like  from  what  he  saw,  he  thought  it  "  queer," 
And  utter'd  his  surprise  somewhat  too  near. 

CL. 

"And  now,"  said  ARTHUR,  "you  have  done  your  story, 
Once  more,  good  day,"  and,  bowing,  onward  pass'd. 
But,  just  then,  PEBBLE  was  in  all  his  glory  ; 
"  Stay  !  "  he  cry'd,  following  ;    "  Pray,  why  so  fast  ?  " 
ARTHUR  grew  angry  ;  for  BLANCHE  GAIOCORE 
Look'd  anxious  and  displeas'd.     This  must  not  last. 
Yet  how  on  such  a  man  to  fix  a  quarrel  ? 
'T  were  too  absurd.     "  What  would  you  now  ?  "  said 
CARRYL, 

CLI. 

And  very  gravely  :   "  Sir,  this  is  imposing 

Too  much  on  my  forbearance.     Have  you  done  ? " 

"  Done  ?  "  cry'd  the  genius,  not  a  blush  disclosing 

On  his  coarse  face  ;    "  why,  sir,  I  've  scarce  begun  ! 

Know  that,  young  gentleman,  I  am  reposing 

A  trust  in  you  not  given  to  every  one. 

Saving  the  Baron,  and  some  fifty  more, 

My  Rambles  have  been  nam'd  to  none  before. 


THE  RAMBLER.  117 

CL1I. 

"  I  call  them  Rambles  in  Midsummer,  though 

The  spring  is  not  yet  over.  .  .  .     But  I  see 

You  are  impatient,  and  as  CICERO, 

My  namesake  writes,  Feslina  leniie  (l). 

But  tell  me  where  you  lodge,  before  you  go  ; 

For,  sir,  in  truth,  as  I  hate  flattery, 

Your  looks  delight  me  ;  though,  I  must  confess, 

When  first  I  saw  your  face,  it  pleas'd  me  less. 

CLIII. 

"  Your  name  I  know  ;  perhaps  that  lady's  too  ; 
And  more  of  both  of  you  than  you  suppose." 
Cry'd  ARTHUR  to  himself,  "The  deuse  you  do  ! 
This  fellow  means  that  I  should  wring  his  nose,"  — 
Yet  let  the  droll  his  monologue  go  through  ; 
Albeit  in  reason's  spite  his  color  rose. 
"  Now  don't  be  angry  !     Tell  me  where  you  stay  ; 
I  've  much  to  ask,  and  somewhat  too  to  say. 

CL1V. 

"  Roijale  ?     You  don't  ?     That  's  lucky  !     So  do  I  ! 

I  always  go  where  ENGLISHMEN  resort. 

I  hate  your  foreigners  :  they  are  so  sly, 

And  keep  such  nasty  kitchens  ;   and,  in  short, 

Are  so  unlike  ourselves  :  and  that  is  why 

I  hated  you  at  first  ;  though  men  report 

You  Yankees  are  improving  ;   and  no  wonder,  — 

You  are  our  bastards  ;   and  we  made  a  blunder 

(i)  Lente.     Make  haste  slowly ;  a  well-known  apophthegm. 


118  THE  APPOINTMENT. 

CLV. 

"  In  not  legitimating  you,  instead 

Of  flogging  you  as  long  we  were  able," 

(CARRYL  bow'd  low.)    "  I  dine,  where  with  my  bread 

I  swallow  knowledge,  at  the  public  table. 

You  '11  meet  me  there  ?     The  Baron  in  my  stead 

Eats  with  my  wife  :  he  's  proud  and  hates  a  Babel,  — 

(Yet  is  a  whig,  like  you  !  while  I  'm  all  tory  !) 

CARRYL,  adieu  ;  addio,  Miss  Magory." 

CLVI. 

Much  ARTHUR  laugh'd,  when  PEBBLE'S  vulgar  feature, 

And  awkward  person,  were  no  longer  near 

To  bar  his  merriment.     "  A  meddling  creature  !  " 

(He  said  to  BLANCHE,)  "  and  impudent,  't  is  clear, 

Yet  no  doubt  harmless.     But  I  must  beseech  your 

Forgiveness  that  I  seern'd  to  lend  an  ear 

So  patient  to  his  chattering.     In  truth, 

I  could  not  treat  him  harshly,"  said  the  youth. 

CLVII. 

Then,  much  to  her  amusement,  he  translated 
All  he  had  heard  from  PEBBLE  ;    who,  that  hour, 
In  CONSTANCE'  presence,  to  his  wife  related 
How  BLANCHE  had  fallen  into  CARRYL'S  pow'r  : 
"  He  'd  try'd  to  save  her,  but  was  glad,"  he  stated, 
"To  hurry  from  the  abuse  both  chose  to  show'r. 
For  him,"  he  added,  sighing,  —  "  Such  a  sinner  !  " 
And  went  to  dress,  to  meet  the  youth  at  dinner. 


THE  HAPPINESS   OF  AMIABILITY.  119 

CLVIII. 

If  ever  man,  since  first  the  unborn  was  driven 
From  Eden's  bowers,  and  EVE  conceiv'd  in  sin, 
Was  happy,  it  was  ARTHUR  :  not  that  given 
To  him  in  plenty  had  the  world's  goods  been  ; 
For  he  had  heir'd  but  little,  nor  had  thriven 
By  means  which  others  use  that  mammon  win  : 
Not  that  he  was  in  aspiration  blest  ; 
For  Hope  had  mock'd  him,  as  she  mocks  the  rest : 

CLIX. 

Nor  that  he  was  more  virtuous,  better  bred, 

More  wise,  or  better  made,  than  most  men  are  ; 

For  all  these  qualities  have  never  led 

Alone  to  happiness  ;  they  rather  bar 

From  its  access,  —  high  expectations  spread 

Before  us,  which  we  chase  to  find  too  far, 

And  purify  the  heart,  and  senses  fine, 

That  these  may  agonize,  and  that  may  pine  : 

CLX. 

But  that  he  was  not  envious  :  that  to  see 

Delight  in  others  woke  delight  in  him  : 

Their  happiness  was  his  felicity  ; 

Their  good  success  made  not  his  prospects  dim  ; 

To  solace  Grief,  and  bid  Affliction  flee, 

FilPd  up  his  large  heart,  even  to  the  brim, 

With  that  sweet  sense  of  universal  love, 

Which  souls  benignant  share  with  HEAVEN  above. 


120  THE  HAPPINESS  OF  AMIABILITY. 

CLXI. 

This  feeling  ARTHUR  carry 'd  to  excess  ; 
And  all  excess  is  weakness.     Thus  the  fear 
Of  doing  aught  that  might  the  heart  distress, 
Or  chafe  the  interest,  or  make  appear 
The  blush  of  shame  or  of  uneasiness 
Over  the  face  of  others,  though  not  dear, 
Nor  even  esteem'd,  with  whom  in  life  he  mix'd, 
Made  him  at  times  seem  wavering  and  unfix'd. 

CLXII. 

Hence  men  less  noble,  and  of  harsher  mind, 

And  women  of  small  heart,  as  many  be, 

Upon  a  soul  so  facile  and  so  kind, 

And  trustful  even  to  credulity, 

Impos'd  with  ease  ;  though  when  the  youth  would  find, 

As  never  fail'd,  their  little  honesty, 

His  wrath  was  hot,  and,  if  it  burn 'd  not  long, 

He  learn'd  to  know  the  wronger  by  the  wrong. 

CLXIII. 

He  seem'd  to  join  two  natures  in  his  own, 
But  not  in  like  degree  :  one,  —  oftenest  seen, 
And  which  conspicuous  in  his  visage  shown,  — 
Soft,  warm,  confiding,  loving,  and  serene  ; 
The  other,  fierce  and  haughty,  which  had  grown 
Perhaps  to  have  ascendant,  but  between 
The  two  Philosophy  had  thrust  her  hand, 
To  favor  that,  and  this  to  keep  at  stand. 


SOME  GOOD  IN  EVERY  THING.  121 

CLXIV. 

However, — to  return  from  my  digression,— 
'T  was  thus,  to  do  a  pleasure,  if  he  could, 
CARRYL  had  made  to  PEBBLE  his  concession, 
Though,  certainly,  he  was  not  in  the  mood, 
Now  of  his  pineal  gland  had  got  possession 
A  darling  passion,  to  permit  a  rude, 
And  vulgar  ass,  with  self-invited  bray. 
To  frighten  Cupid  almost  clean  away. 

CLXV. 

Yet,  had  he  known,  that  by  the  phrase,  In  truth 
I  could  nol  treat  him  harshly,  he  had  made 
A  great  stroke  with  BIANCA,  who,  in  sooth, 
Herself  good-natur'd,  was  at  heart  afraid 
CARRYL  was  not,  remembering  the  youth 
That  very  morn  had  some  hot  blood  betray 'd, 
Had  he  known  this,  he  would  have  own'd,  I  trow, 
An  ass's  bray  comes  sometimes  apropos. 

CLXVL 

Long  laugh'd  the  youth  and  maid,  as  I  have  sung, 
At  the  poor  beast's  expense,  (i)     Said  ARTHUR  then  : 

(i)  I  hope  that  nobody  will  act  towards  me,  in  this  place,  the 
part  historians  have  done  to  old  FROISSARD  in  the  matter  of  the 
siege  of  CALAIS,  and  accuse  me  of  inconsistency.  I  have  writ- 
ten this  stanza,  and  the  one  which  follows,  with  my  eyes  wide 
open,  not  in  the  least  forgetting  the  character  I  had  drawn  of  CAR- 
RYL and  of  BIANCA.  CARRYL  would  not  have  laughed  in  PEBBLE'S 
11 


122  WANTONNESS  OF  FORTUNE. 

"  How  wantonly  indeed  hath  Fortune  flung, 
Blind  that  she  is,  her  favors  among  men  ! 
Look  at  this  very  ENGLISHMAN.     Among 
His  equals  in  degree,  not  one  in  ten, 
I  might  say  in  ten  thousand,  would  you  find 
Meaner  in  spirit,  or  more  dull  of  mind. 

CLXVII. 

"  Heartless,  pedantic,  ignorant,  ill-bred, 
Coarse-featur'd,  rude  in  person,  and  of  speech 
Plebeian  as  his  manners,  Fate  has  shed 
Around  him  many  blessings,  made  him  rich, 
(At  least  't  would  seem  so,)  given  him  to  wed 
A  lovely  woman,  far  above  his  pitch, 
Bless'd  him  with  offspring,  —  more,  it  well  may  be. 
Now  look  at  FELIX  ;  what  on  earth  has  he  ? 

face,  nor  would  BIANCA  ;  they  were  both  too  amiable,  and  too 
urbane.  Neither  would  they  have  amused  themselves  by  portray- 
ing him  in  caricature  to  a  third  party.  They  laughed  at  the 
buffoonery  which  had  been  exhibited  before  them,  without  a  refer- 
ence to  the  pantaloon  who  had  enacted  it,  and  without  a  possibility 
of  doing  him  an  injury.  And  when,  directly  afterwards,  CARRYL 
grows  warm  in  comparing  PEBBLE'S  lot  with  that  of  FELIX,  and 
talks  with  an  energy  that  has  something  in  it  of  asperity,  it  is  be- 
cause of  this  comparison.  It  is  not  malice  which  prompts  him,  but 
a  moral  indignation,  such  as  at  times  inspires  the  most  amiable  and 
the  most  gentle,  when  their  sense  of  justice  is  nice  and  easily  out- 
raged. 

And  thus  it  is,  that  the  bitterest  satirists  have,  not  unfrequently, 
been  in  society  the  most  amiable  of  men,  while  on  the  contrary  the 
mildest  and  meekest  writers  have  often  been  found,  when  mixing 
with  the  world,  to  be  cynical,  petulant,  unaccommodating,  and 
malignant.  The  head  and  heart  are  very  usually  at  variance. 


CARRYL  COMMENCES  THE   STORY.  123 

CLXVIII. 

"  FELIX,  my  servant, — what  has  Fortune  given 

To  him  ?     And  yet  is  he,  in  mind  and  soul, 

Voice,  manners,  feature,  —  I  was  almost  driven 

To  say,  in  form,  —  worth  fifty  like  this  fool  ! ".  .  . 

"  You  are  unjust  to  Fortune,  or  to  HEAVEN," 

Quoth  BLANCHE  with  sweetness  ;  "  for,  upon  the  whole, 

Such  as  you  make  him,  FELIX  must  be  fully 

As  blest,  his  way,  and  more  than  this  MARC  TULLY." 

CLXIX. 

"  Yes,  if  that  wisdom  were  a  compensation, 

Or  virtue,  or  both  qualities  combin'd, 

For  so  entire  and  sad  a  deprivation 

As  FELIX  bears  of  all  those  gifts  we  find 

Are  needed  to  extort  the  admiration, 

The  love,  or  even  sufferance  of  mankind. 

Ah  !  did  you  know,  poor  wretch  how  sore  oppress'd 

His  life  was  once,  you  would  not  deem  him  bless'd  !  " 

CLXX. 

"  Perhaps,"  reply'd  BIANCA,  "  the  Signorc 

Will,  —  nay  I  have  his  promise  so  to  do,  — 

Recount  some  portion  of  his  servant's  story  ?  " 

"With  pleasure,"  CARRYL  said.    "  The  tale,  though  true, 

(But  would  the  Signorina  GAIOCORE 

Be  seated  ?   No  ?)  is  such,  that  there  are  few 

Of  fiction  have  its  pathos  ;  surely  none 

In  bitter  moral  can  o'ertop  this  one. 


124  THE   STORY  OF 

CLXXI. 

"  Were  I  an  ENGLISHMAN,  of  lofty  station, 

High  birth,  great  fortune,  none  could  feel  surprise, 

That  I  should  have  a  man  of  education, 

Like  FELIX,  of  good  manners,  moral,  wise, 

To  travel  with  me  in  a  situation," 

(BIANCA'S  color  mounted  to  her  eyes, 

Unseen  of  CARRYL,)  "  humble  certainly, 

And  servile,  as  it  would  appear  to  be  ; 

CLXXII. 

"  But  coming,  as  we  both  do,  from  a  land 

Where  all  men,  civilly,  are  equals  born, 

And  often  socially  may  take  their  stand 

According  to  the  talents  which  adorn 

Their  several  natures,  that  I  should  command 

The  services  of  one  like  FELIX  LORN, 

Poor  though  he  be,  is  strange  ;   but  what  is  quite 

As  strange,  I  do  it  in  my  own  despite. 

CLXXIII. 

"  There  is  a  mystery  which  even  I 

Have  never  solv'd,  about  this  ill-starr'd  creature. 

He  loves  me  dearly  ;   with  a  love  so  high, 

So  constant,  and  so  tender,"  (every  feature 

In  CARRYL'S  face  here  quiver'd,  and  his  eye 

Grew  moist,  his  voice  too  falter'd,)  —  "that — the  nature 

Of  woman  seldom  with  the  like  has  blest  her. 

I  know  one  instance  only  ;  in  —  my  sister. 


THE  HUNCHBACK.  125 

CLXXIV. 

"  His  birth  he  tells  not,  save  that  it  is  mean  ; 
Mean  even  with  us,  and  shameful  everywhere  : 
The  curse  of  Custom,  which  has  dar'd  to  screen 
The  sire  from  forfeits  that  the  child  must  bear. 
Hence,  when  I  sought  with  earnestness  to  wean 
Poor  FELIX  from  his  purpose  ;  and  his  pray'r  .  .  . 
But,  pardon  me  ;   against  all  rule  I  'm  sinning  ; 
Beginning  by  the  end  is  not  beginning. 

CLXXV. 

"  In  a  small  State,  dear  lady,  of  the  score 
And  six  great  sovereignties,  whose  stars  compose 
The  galaxy  of  Freedom,  —  by  the  shore 
Where  the  blue  Western  Ocean  ebbs  and  flows, 
There  lies  an  island,  call'd  in  days  of  yore, 
Ere  the  Strip'd  Banner  o'er  the  Red  Cross  rose, 
The  JNew  World's  Eden,  but  now  chiefly  known 
For  fish,  fine  harbors,  pretty  girls,  and  stone. 

CLXXVI. 

"  Its  soil  is  still  the  same,  its  air  as  pure  ; 
Its  people, — -  better  't  would  be  hard  to  find  ; 
But  motion  onward  cannot  aye  endure, 
And  NEWPORT  and  the  isle  have  gone  behind. 
Yet  its  fine  beaches  are  attractions  sure, 
Which  draw  in  crowds  the  gay  and  roving  kind 
For  there  is  yet  the  glorious  surf  to  swim  in, 
And  the  sea  fog  still  beautifies  the  women. 


126  THE   STORY  OF 

CLXXVII. 

"  Scarcely  nine  moons  have  glisten'd  on  that  wave, 
Since  I  went  thither  ;  not  to  use  its  waters,  — 
Though  't  is  a  joy  in  their  strong  foam  to  lave, — 
Nor  to  eat  fish,  —  nor  ogle  wives  and  daughters 
That  come  to  get  complexions,  or  to  save,  — 
But  see  alive  what  every  rhyme-book  slaughters, 
And  bathe  my  senses  in  the  cooling  airs 
In  which  the  sonnet-making  men  drown  theirs. 

CLXXVIII. 

"  My  chief  enjoyment  was,  at  middle  day, 

Or  in  the  early  morn,  to  mount  a  horse, 

(No  man  then  stirring,)  and,  full  speed,  away 

Over  the  sounding  beach  the  creature  force, 

Chas'd  by  the  mist,  which  seem'd  to  wet  like  spray, 

And  got  before,  as  if  to  bar  my  course  : 

A  taste  perhaps  my  mother  gave  to  me  ; 

She  being  born,  like  VENUS,  on  the  sea. 

CLXXIX. 

"  (A  beauty,  too,  she  was.     Poor  Mother  !)  .  .  .  Well, 

One  morning,  ere  the  sun  had  left  the  sea, 

I  'd  gallop'd  o'er  one  beach  as  you  've  heard  tell, 

And,  reining  up,  was  passing  leisurely 

The  sandy  road  and  grass-grown  soil  which  swell 

Between  it  and  the  third,  (for  there  are  three,  — 

And  't  was  the  midmost  which  began  my  route,) 

When,  starting  suddenly,  my  horse  flew  out. 


THE   HUNCHBACK.  127 

CLXXX. 

"  I  look'd  involuntarily.     Alone, 

Before  me  on  the  road,  and  yet  aside, 

Seated,  or  rather  crouch'd,  upon  a  stone, 

What  might  be  either  man  or  boy  I  spy'd, 

The  shape  was  such.     Unmov'd  as  if  't  had  grown 

Out  of  the  soil,  or  to  the  spot  were  ty'd, 

It  sat,  the  face  hid  in  its  hands,  and  these 

In  turn  supported  on  their  owner's  knees. 

CLXXXI. 

"  Dress'd  was  the  form  in  black,  of  decent  trim, 
Though  soil'd  with  dust  ;   a  hat  before  him  lay, 
Out  of  his  reach,  and  resting  on  the  brim, 
As  if  't  had  fallen,  and  had  roll'd  away"; 
Beside  him,  on  a  staff,  the  unrinded  limb 
Of  some  green  sapling,  fasten'd  to  its  spray, 
Was  a  small  bundle,  whose  proportions  show'd 
A  book  or  two  ek'd  out  its  scanty  load. 

CLXXXII. 

"  My  horse  still  restive,  as  we  came  abreast 
I  rais'd  my  voice  to  soothe  him.     At  the  sound, 
The  figure  started  from  his  state  of  rest, 
And,  gazing  with  a  wilder'd  stare  around, 
Disclos'd  a  face,  —  so  haggard  !  so  distrest 
In  look  !  so  wild,  as  of  a  mind  unsound  !  — 
And  pallid  cheeks,  which  more  unsightly  seem'd 
From  tears,  quite  visible,  that  down  them  stream'd. 


128  THE  STORY  OF 

CLXXXIII. 

"  3T  was  but  a  moment's  glance  ;  for,  quick  as  thought. 

Recovering  he  turn'd  his  eyes  on  me,  — 

Asham'd,  displeas'd,  as  fancying  I  sought 

To  watch  him,  seeing  what  I  should  not  see, 

Then  darted  forward,  seiz'd  his  hat,  and  caught 

His  bundle  from  the  ground  so  hurriedly, 

The  beast  I  rode,  now  scar'd  anew,  sprang  out, 

And  bore  me  at  a  run  along  the  route. 

CLXXXIV. 

"  This  occupy'd  me  for  a  little  space. 
But  having  rein'd  him  in,  I  look'd  around. 
The  wretched  being  had  resum'd  his  place, 
In  the  same  posture,  as  when  first  there  found  ; 
Only,  his  head  was  cover'd,  and  his  face 
More  rais'd,  though  still  inclining  to  the  ground. 
'T  was  strange  !     I  long'd  to  pity  him,  to  aid, 
But  dreaded  giving  pain,  and  felt  afraid 

CLXXXV. 

"  Of  being  deem'd  intrusive.     On  I  rode. 

But  aye  that  figure  was  before  my  mind. 

The  face,  which,  seen  but  for  a  moment,  show'd, 

Through  all  its  anguish,  something  quite  refin'd, 

The  books  I  had  observ'd,  or  thought  were  stow'd 

In  his  small  bundle,  inspir'd  an  undefin'd 

Yet  eager  wish  to  know  his  situation, 

That  cross'd  to  strengthen  my  commiseration. 


THE  HUNCHBACK.  129 

CLXXXVJ. 

"Again  ....     But  I  must  weary  you,  I  fear.".  .  . 
"O no, indeed,"  said  BLANCHE;  "how  could  that  be?"... 
"  The  road  was  straight,  the  morning  air  was  clear, 
Not  yet  the  mist  had  risen  from  the  sea. 

I  turn'd  me  in  the  saddle,  and  though  near 
No  longer  now,  the  man  could  plainly  see, 
Quiet  no  more,  but  acting  in  a  mode 
Which  madness,  or  a  mortal  anguish  show'd. 

CLXXXV1I. 

"  The  wretched  creature  was  upon  his  feet. 

He  wrung  his  hands,  then  seem'd  to  rend  his  hair 

(His  head  again  uncover'd),  and  then  beat 

His  breast  and  brow  with  gestures  of  despair  ; 

Anon  he  kneel'd  down  by  the  rocky  seat, 

And  rais'd  his  clasp'd  hands  as  in  act  of  pray'r  ; 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  as  if  shot  dead,  fell 

Prone  on  the  dewy  grass,  and  lay  quite  still. 

CLXXXVIII. 

II  Already,  I  had  turn'd  my  horse's  head. 

A  moment,  and  I  reach'd  the  sufferer's  side. 
But,  starting  up  when  heard  the  heavy  tread, 
And  facing  me  with  mingled  shame  and  pride, 
'  What  is  it  brings  you  back  to  me  ?  '  he  said  ; 
'  I  have  not  sought  to  interrupt  your  ride  ; 
Leave  me,  too,  to  my  morning's  pleasure  '  ;  and, 
This  said,  he  turn'd,  and  took  his  hat  in  hand,, 


130  THE  STORY  OF 

CLXXXIX. 

"And  bundle,  and  was  making  for  the  shore. 
But  these  his  words,  so  different  from  the  speech 
Of  vulgar  tongues,  confirm'd  me  but  the  more 
In  my  resolve.     '  One  moment  !  I  beseech  '  .  .  . 
I  cry'd,  and  put  myself  his  way  before, 
And,  leaping  from  the  saddle,  try'd  to  reach 
His  arm  to  stop  him.     But  the  man  drew  back, 
And,  heaving  o'er  his  neck  his  scanty  pack, 

CXC. 

"  '  Why  do  you,  —  what  right  have  you,'  he  exclaim'd, 

'  To  interrupt  me  ?  is  the  road  not  free  ?  ' 

He  'd  fac'd  me,  and,  with  look  not  now  asham'd, 

But  angry,  spoke,  and  with  asperity. 

'  Stay  !  '  I  rejoin 'd  :   '  How  am  I  to  be  blam'd, 

If  seeing  you  suffering,  as  you  seem'd  to  be, 

I  yielded  to  the  wish  to  ?  ....  and  ....  indeed  '  .  .  . 

He  ey'd  me  coldly  :  I  could  not  proceed. 

CXC1. 

"  My  hesitation,  my  embarrass'd  mien, 
Seem'd  to  surprise,  to  move  him  ;  but  he  cry'd, 
A  moment  after,  in  a  tone  of  spleen, 
And  even  of  rudeness,  '  Go  !  resume  your  ride, 
And  keep  your  pity  for  the  rich  and  mean, 
Who  ask  and  pay  for  it.'     I  stepp'd  aside, 
Without  a  word,  —  I  had  no  word  to  say,  — 
And  watch'd  him  sadly  as  he  walk'd  away. 


THE  HUNCHBACK.  131 

CXCII. 

"He  seem'd  to  feel  my  manner;  for  again 

He  turn'd  on  me  his  red  and  haggard  eyes. 

'  Can  it  be  possible  another's  pain,' 

He  said,  in  tones  of  doubt  and  of  surprise, 

'  Should  move  compassion  ?     No,  no,  —  no  !  't  is  vain, 

And  worse  than  vain  in  me,  who  should  be  wise 

In  human  sympathy,  to  look  to  find 

Kindness  in  men  because  their  words  are  kind.' 

CXCIII. 

"  'T  was  useless  to  persist ;  he  would  not  stay, 
Nor  listen  more,  —  yet  after  I  had  got 
Remounted,  and  was  fairly  on  my  way, 
Sought  quietly  again  the  self-same  spot 
Whence  haply  I  had  driven  him  away, 
And,  when  I  turn'd  (forget  him  I  could  not) 
From  time  to  time,  was  seated,  seeming  calm, 
With  head  deject,  and  cheek  upon  his  palm. 

CXCIV. 

"And  now  I  was  the  road  about  descending 
Towards  the  third  beach,  when,  on  looking  round 
For  the  last  time,  behold  the  stranger  wending, 
With  rapid  footsteps,  o'er  the  travell'd  ground  ! 
But  in  a  contrary  direction  tending 
From  that  wherein  for  pleasure  I  was  bound. 
His  head  was  bare  ;  nor  hand,  nor  shoulder  bore 
The  slender  staff  and  burden,  as  before. 


132  THE   STORY  OF 

CXCV. 

"  My  mind  misgave  me.     Why,  I  need  not  mention  ; 

The  man's  strange  passion,  and  the  neighbouring  sea 

Will  lead  you  to  suspect  his  fell  intention, 

As  they  at  once  suggested  it  to  me. 

But  while,  with  throbbing  heart,  for  its  prevention 

I  drew  my  bridle  short,  and  rapidly 

Spurr'd  o'er  the  sand,  I  dreaded  I  should  come 

In  time  to  witness,  not  prevent  his  doom. 

CXCVI. 

"  My  hope  was  that  the  unhappy  man  would  take 
Not  to  the  surf,  but,  in  his  desperation, 
For  the  high  bank  and  steepy  crags  would  make 
That  form  the  smooth  shore's  southern  termination. 
Deep  there  the  flood,  and  there  the  billows  break 
Against  the  rocks,  in  constant  agitation, 
Sending  at  times,  when  seas  be  rough,  their  spray 
With  roar  and  fury  up  the  cliffs  mid-way. 

CXCVII. 

"  Thus,  without  giving  him  alarm,  I  might 
Keep  nigh  enough  to  intercept  him,  ere 
He  should  be  able  to  ascend  the  height  ; 
For  all  unapt  to  climb  he  did  appear, 
So  much  he  was  misshap'd,  that  hapless  wight. 
But  still  there  was  no  little  cause  to  fear, 
That,  should  he  turn  and  see  me,  my  intent 
Might  only  hasten  what  I  would  prevent. 


THE  HUNCHBACK.  133 

CXCVIII. 

"  The  chance  was  small.     But  Heaven  came  in  aid. 
The  man  had  kept  straight  onward,  even  as  I 
Had  hop'd  and  look'd  for  ;  and  now,  much  afraid 
I  should  alarm  him  if  I  came  too  nigh, 
I  'd  drawn  my  rein,  as  soon  as  I  had  made 
The  space  betwixt  us  less  by  half,  and  high 
Upon  the  sands  was  riding,  where  the  ground 
Being  loose,  my  horse's  hoofs  gave  little  sound. 

CXCIX. 

"  The  tide  was  coming  in,  and  with  its  roar 
Favor'd  my  object  ;  and  the  mist,  already 
Spread  like  a  cloud  of  smoke  the  horizon  o'er, 
Was  driving  onward  with  a  motion  steady 
And  rapid,  and  had  soon  attain'd  the  shore. 
And  now,  thus  shrouded,  at  a  rate  more  speedy 
Over  the  sand  I  flew,  my  horse's  head 
Scarce  seeing  for  the  mist,  scarce  heard  his  tread. 


cc. 


"  The  fog  is  gone.     Ten  paces  from  me,  lo, 
The  man  I  seek  !     He  hears  ;  he  sees  ;  he  flies  ; 
Up,  up  the  cliff  with  certain  step  ;  nor  slow  ; 
No,  no  !  so  swift,  I  scarce  believe  my  eyes. 
Calling,  adjuring,  after  him  I  go, 
Touch,  have  him  ;  but  upon  the  slippery  rise 
Stumbles  my  horse.     I  could  no  more  hold  on. 
A  spring,  —  a  leap,  —  a  plash  ;  the  man  was  gone." 
12 


134  THE  STORY  INTERRUPTED. 

CCI. 

Here,  in  the  very  middle  of  his  tale. 

Just  as  his  speech  was  growing  animated, 

And  BLANCHE  was  listening  with  a  cheek  quite  pale, 

Her  warm  heart  beating,  and  her  eyes  dilated, 

CARRYL  was  cut  short  by  a  sound  of  wail, 

From  one  in  strange  misventure  implicated. 

What  sound  this  was,  what  scene,  and  who  the  man  too. 

Shall  be  recounted  in  another  Canto. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  AND 
SECOND  CANTOS  OF  ARTHUR  CARRYL. 


-,  — TH,    18—. 


La  mia  sorella,  che  tra  bella  e  buona 
Non  so  qual  fosse  piu. 

DANTE.    Purg.  xxiv.  5. 


-,   — TH,    18—. 


ON  this,  the  day,  my  sister,  when  thou  gav'st 

Thy  spirit  back  to  Him  who  lent  it  thee, 

And  the  young  soul,  yet  virgin  of  all  stain, 

Beneath  its  new-fledg'd  wings  receiv'd  the  gale 

That  bore  it  to  the  valleys  of  the  bless'd, 

Far  from  a  world  for  which  it  was  too  good,  — 

On  this  the  day  that  still  for  me  revives 

Thy  final  agony,  that  last  dim  hour 

It  was  deny'd  thy  brother  to  make  bright, 

Yet,  with  a  tearful  but  delicious  sense, 

Brings  thy  immaculate  virtue  to  my  view, 

It  will  methinks  be  well,  with  the  mind's  eye, 

To  gaze  the  vista  of  thy  blameless  life. 

'T  will  soothe  my  grief,  and  not  dishonor  thee. 

Is  't  not  thy  spirit  hovers  o'er  me  now, 

Touching  my  lips  ?     My  sister  !     O,  my  sister  ! 

In  the  fourth  quarter  of  the  year's  small  round, 
Four  score  and  sixteen  hours  from  the  day 
When  MARY'S  Son  was  given  to  the  world, 
'T  is  five  and  twenty  winters  past,  I  read, 
12* 


138 


That  then,  what  time  the  wakeful  bird  proclaims 

To  the  cold  stars  the  second  hour  of  morn, 

A  lovely  flower,  upon  the  natal  stem 

Where  my  own  bud  of  life  its  germ  put  forth, 

Expos'd  its  downy  surface  to  the  air. 

Never  was  bloom  more  favor'd  of  the  skies. 

For  GOD  beheld  its  beauty,  and  the  flower 

Designing  to  transplant,  when  fully  blown, 

To  where  its  loveliness  should  never  fade, 

And  its  rich  scent  breathe  ever  unconsum'd, 

Set  over  it  his  angels.     On  its  top 

Glisten'd  each  morn  the  honey-dew  of  heaven, 

And  the  bright  sun  its  grain  dy'd  vermil-red. 

Increas'd  the  flower,  admir'd  of  Heaven  and  men, 

And,  when  its  cup  was  fully  op'd,  diffus'd 

Such  ravishing  fragrance  as  enslav'd  the  sense. 

'T  was  then  the  Almighty,  from  the  height  of  Heaven, 

Stretch'd  forth  his  arm,  and  took  it  to  himself. 

Such  was  my  sister.     Of  her  earlier  years 
I  not  remember  ;  for,  too  near  of  age, 
I  was  unheedful  of  her  dawning  worth, 
Nor,  as  with  thee,  my  other,  later  loss  ! 
Over  her  infancy  and  blushing  prime 
Kept  an  unchanging  and  a  fond  regard. 
But  they  who  knew  her  best  have  still  describ'd  her 
Gentle  and  docile,  yet  of  fearless  heart, 
Loving,  and  lovely,  and  belov'd  of  all, 
In  nothing  selfish,  and,  in  speech  and  thought, 
From  the  great  vice  and  weakness  of  her  sex, 
That  stain  of  little  minds,  from  falsehood  free, 
Since  thought  and  speech  were  hers  ;  which  I  believe 


139 


For  not  from  out  the  sorb  the  sweet  peach  blushes,  (i) 

Nor  turns  the  prickly  thistle  to  a  rose. 

And  beautiful  she  grew,  how  very  beautiful  ! 

With  eyes  so  large,  and  dark,  so  full  of  soul ! 

And  brows  that  look'd  like  purity  itself, 

And  were  the  very  index  of  her  mind, 

Telling  of  harmony,  and  holy  thought, 

And  high  resolve  with  resignation  mix'd, 

And  contemplation  sad  yet  not  severe,  — 

And  a  sweet  smile,  which  round  the  innocent  mouth, 

Whose  hue  was  of  the  newly-budding  rose, 

Play'd  with  a  heaven-born  grace  that  witch'd  the  heart; 

Not  always  there,  but,  o'er  the  summer  sky 

Of  her  serene  and  starry  visage,  flashing 

A  light  which  pass'd  away,  — yet  not  so  pass'd 

As  passes  the  electric  fire  of  storms, 

But  leaving  a  soft  radiance  in  its  track, 

As  't  were  reflected  from  the  effulgence  gone  ; 

Whether  't  were  so  indeed,  or  fancied  so, 

By  those  on  whose  delighted  eyes,  thrice  bless'd, 

The  ineffable  beauty  of  its  lustre  fell. 

Well  might  they  be  delighted,  fortunate  they  ! 

For  the  light  quiver'd  from  the  virgin's  heart. 

As  she  grew  up,  and  my  eyes  open'd  more 
To  her  most  manifest  and  expanding  worth, 
We  grew  more  fond  ;  we  had  been  aye  attach'd, 
(Indeed,  she  was  the  favorite  of  us  all. 
Loving  and  lovely,  could  it  well  be  else  ?) 

(i)     Che  tra  li  lazzi  sorbi 

Si  disconvien  fruttare  al  dolce  fico. 

DANTE.     Inf.  xv.  Go. 


140 


We  grew  more  fond  :  and  what  a  world  of  love 

Was  hers  for  me  !  ungrateful  that  I  was  ! 

Who  could  but  ill  repay  with  my  whole  heart 

Affection  measureless  and  strong  as  hers. 

For  hers  was  twined  likewise  with  her  mind  : 

Her  thoughts,  her  speech,  her  looks  were  full  of  me 

All  that  she  did  was  modell'd  to  my  taste, 

If  modelling  were  needed,  when,  itself, 

Aught  that  she  did  was  almost  sure  to  please, 

Who  was,  in  each  thing,  excellent  and  good, 

And  cast  in  such  a  mould,  that  grace  to  her 

Seem'd  natural  as  motion.     Yet  being  such, 

So  good,  so  beautiful,  so  fine  of  form, 

Such  the  devotion,  I  might  even  say 

The  fond  idolatry  of  her  regard, 

That  Flattery  had  no  compliment  so  dear 

As  that  which  told  her  she  resembled  me, 

Who  (Heaven  doth  know  it,  and,  alas,  myself 

Only  too  well  !)  was  even  so  like  to  her 

As  brass  is  to  the  gold  it  most  resembles  ; 

A  metal  of  like  color,  but  soon  tarnish 'd, 

Mix'd  of  two  others,  both  of  baser  sort, 

Weightless,  intractile,  and  of  odor  vile. 

How  happy  were  our  days  !  how  jocund  too  ! 
For  though  contemplative,  as  I  have  said, 
She  was  of  cheerful  mood,  my  most  fair  sister, 
Taking  delight  in  all  things,  all  things  good, 
And  gifted  with  a  deal  of  playful  wit, 
And  a  rich  humor  that  was  ever  prompt 
For  jest,  or  repartee,  or  frolic  gay, 
When  jest  and  repartee  and  frolic  gay 


141 


Did  harm  to  no  one  and  found  willing  butt. 
For  she  had  too  much  heart,  too  much  of  that 
Sweet  spirit  of  amiability,  that  quick 
Benevolence,  which  wanting,  social  rank 
And  mental  culture  never  can  confer 
The  manner  that  is  truly  styl'd  well-bred, 
To  earn  abroad  the  perilous  name  of  wit : 
The  ball  was  toss'd  at  home,  and  'twixt  ourselves  ; 
And  never  one  or  other  took  offence, 
Whichever  side  the  merry  game  might  win. 
Then  did  my  wit,  which  has  been  drooping  since, 
Spring  up  perennial,  and  bear  daily  fruit, 
Prolific  by  proximity  with  hers. 
Then  did  the  house  reecho  with  my  laugh 
(Since  heard  so  seldom,)  and  the  very  walls 
Bore  witness  to  my  spirit's  happy  vein, 
Scrawl'd  o'er  with  epigram,  and  sprightly  song, 
And  tender  madrigal  of  mocking  verse, 
Half  satire  and  half  praise,  and  both  sincere, 
Pour'd  forth  in  unpremeditated  strain 
Upon  my  many  loves,  whom  well  she  knew, 
Pour'd  in  a  foreign  tongue,  that  lawful  eyes 
Alone  might  con  their  sense  or  note  their  rhyme. 
All  which  in  after  days  (when  'neath  the  sod 
The  heart  lay  still  that  once  had  beat  for  me 
As  never,  never  woman's  will  beat  more) 
I  found  transcrib'd,  the  poorest,  as  the  best, 
In  her  dear  hand,  and  needfully  laid  by, 
As  they  were  oracles,  or  things  of  price  ; 
Laid  by,  as  never  jewels  yet  were  laid, 
Never  by  her  ;  and  one,  which  I  had  writ 
Some  day  with  idle  finger,  when  the  walls 


142 


Were  coated,  from  the  dampness  of  the  air, 
With  gray  humidity,  and  sweated  dew, 
Transferr'd  (though  little  worth  it)  to  the  leaves 
Of  her  portfolio,  mid  the  copied  wealth 
Of  genuine  bards  and  sages.     As  I  look'd 
With  a  dim  eye  upon  this  mark  of  love, 
And  admiration  surely  ill  bestow 'd, 
Lo,  on  another  page,  where  I  myself 
Had  written  with  my  pencil  a  brief  note 
Upon  as  brief  a  maxim  of  BRUYERE'S, 
(Whence  got  I  know  not  ;  for,  by  me  directed, 
She  never  conn'd  a  lore  that  wounds  the  heart,) 
And  which,  as  I  had  pencill'd  it  unseen, 
Was  mark'd  with  the  initials  of  my  name, 
My  eye  fell  on  this  couplet  (from,  I  think, 
Some  popular  poet)  'neath  my  cypher  writ, 
So  writ  as  to  apply  to  me  alone  : 
He  is  the  sunshine  of  my  life  ;  and  like 
A  flower  I  liv'd  andjlourish'd  in  his  sight. 
Written  't  had  been  when  I  was  far  away, 
Far  from  the  heart  I  never  should  have  left. 
Judge  of  my  feelings  when  I  found  it  there  ! 

Studious  she  was,  my  fair  and  gentle  sister  ; 
But  all  her  studies  were  advis'd  by  me. 
Hence  never  was  her  heavenly  mind  defil'd 
By  lessons  other  maidens  use  to  con. 
No  noxious  novels,  no  licentious  plays, 
However  sanction'd  by  a  Shakspeare's  name, 
Came  undiluted  to  her  mental  lips. 
She  drank  their  waters  purify'd  ;  their  fruit 
She  gather'd  from  the  double-bearing  tree, 


143 


When  its  pernicious  apples  had  been  pluck'd 
And  rank  excrescences  all  lopp'd  away. 
A  service  for  the  which  how  well  repaid 
Had  been  the  gardener  by  her  frequent  thanks, 
If  his  own  sense  of  duty  well  perform'd, 
If  the  angelic  beauty  of  her  eyes, 
Which  look'd  not  as  the  eyes  of  others  look, 
And  the  expression  of  her  innocent  mouth, 
That  index  of  a  heart  which  knew  no  guile 
And  never  had  indulg'd  a  thought  impure, 
If  these  had  not  repaid  him  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  yet  how  few,  how  very  few,  indeed, 
Of  women  have  a  mind  so  stor'd  as  hers  ! 
How  few  whose  natural  gifts  are  so  complete  ! 

In  time  she  was  betroth'd.     And  soon  a  change 
Took  place  in  that  fair  being  which  all  remark'd. 
She  was  no  longer  cheerful,  but  grew  dull  ; 
So  that  I  oft  would  banter  her,  averring 
That  Cupid's  bird-bolts  had  shot  dead  her  wit. 
Alas,  poor  girl  !  she  was  too  fond  of  me 
(As  I  have  learn'd  too  late,)  to  give  her  thoughts 
So  fully  to  a  lover  as  that  imply'd  ; 
And  I  was  jesting  all  the  while  at  Death. 
But  as  her  fair  cheek  sunk  not,  and  her  form 
Lost  not  its  beautiful  symmetry,  none  dream'd 
Of  health  impair'd  whereof  she  not  complain'd. 
Thus  pass'd  a  year,  another.     Strange  to  say  ! 
Her  flesh  had  wasted  not,  had  even  increas'd  ! 
But  when  the  third  set  in,  it  brought  a  cough, 
A  troublesome  cough,  which  nothing  could  abate. 
Yet,  as  it  was  the  icy  season  now, 


144 


And  the  physicians  (men  they  were  of  note) 
Pronounc'd  it  nothing,  and  she  not  complain'd, 
(Poor  thing  !  she  was  too  saint-like  to  complain, 
Too  great  of  heart  to  have  a  thought  of  fear, 
Too  wrapt  in  others  to  regard  herself) 
Her  mother  was  not  much  alarm'd  ;   and  I, 
Whose  temper  never  knew  despondence,  I, 
Still  mocking  (wo  is  me  !)  her  spirits  deject, 
Shrunk  not  to  leave  her  for  a  distant  tour, 
(Cause  of  regret  which  cannot  wholly  die,) 
And  parted,  never  to  behold  her  more. 

0  me,  my  sister  !  my  best,  my  first  lov'd  ! 
Hadst  thou  no  word,  no  warning  to  oppose  ? 
No  doubt  that  would  have  given  me  alarm  ; 
For  many  such  must  have  occurr'd  to  thee  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  thy  life  was  self-denying  ; 

Thou  would 'st  not  speak,  because  it  was  thy  wish 
To  keep  me  near  thee,  and  mine  was  to  go. 
But  well,  well,  well,  do  I  remember  now 
Thy  mournful  smile  and  melancholy  eyes, 
When  for  the  third,  last  time  I  kiss'd  farewell, 
And  thou  hadst  no  voice  left  to  say,  Good  bye. 
O,  that  I  had  not  been  too  blind  to  see  ! 
O,  that  my  heart  had  been  as  true  as  thine  ! 

I  cross'd  the  sea.     My  sister's  bridal-day 
Was  fix'd  to  follow  close  on  my  return. 

1  was  not  absent  long  ;  for  I  grew  sick, 

And  sigh'd  for  home  ;  since  all  the  time  away 
I  had  not  had  one  letter  from  my  friends, 
Though  I  had  written  many  as  my  wont, 
And  most  to  her  who  more  than  all  the  rest, 


145 


More  than  all  things  created,  fill'd  my  soul. 
This  time  she  would  have  known  it  had  she  liv'd, 
This  time  my  letters  would  have  told  her  so  ; 
For  hitherto,  deterr'd  by  what  I  deem'd 
Justice  to  others,  I  had  ne'er  evinc'd 
In  outward  act  the  preference  I  felt. 
But  now  I  was  determin'd  to  be  free, 
And  make  her  sure  of  what  she  but  believ'd. 

Such  were  my  calculations,  such  the  plans 
Of  perfect  happiness  I  had  laid  out, 
For  her  and  for  myself  when  we  should  meet, 
That  when  the  ship  drew  nigh  the  wish'd-for  shore, 
And  on  my  cheek  I  felt  again  the  breeze 
That  blew  from  rny  lov'd  home,  where  she  then  slept, 
(Alas,  I  little  thought  what  dreamless  sleep  !) 
Strange  horrible  forebodings  seiz'd  my  mind. 
For  disappointment  had  throughout  my  life 
Follow'd  so  constantly  each  ardent  wish, 
That  now  my  hopes  and  longings  secm'd  too  bright. 
And  Fancy  shifted  the  enchanting  scene 
For  darker  colors  and  a  landscape  drear. 
Dire  visions  now  disturb'd  my  nightly  rest  ; 
Thrice  did  I  see  my  sister  in  her  shroud, 
Thrice  started  from  my  sleep,  I  knew  not  why, 
And  found  the  pillow  wet  with  recent  tears. 

We  landed  ;  and,  as  never  yet  before 
When  I  had  been  from  home,  rny  heart  so  quick 
Beat  in  that  hour  I  scarce  had  breath  to  breathe. 
Behold  by  accident  the  very  first 
Known  person  that  I  meet,  not  seeking  me, 
13 


146 


Nor  knowing  I  was  come,  who  was  not  look'd  for, 

Is  he  to  whom  my  sister's  hand  was  pledg'd  ! 

But  oh  !  the  very  shadow  of  himself ; 

So  wan,  so  thin,  so  broken-down  he  seem'd. 

He  too  had  been  away,  and  had  retur.n'd 

One  hour  too  late  to  see  her  in  her  grave. 

That  day,  four  months  before,  *  *  *  lay 

Breathing  her  last,  and  thinking  not  on  him, 
On  him  the  lover,  but  on  me,  on  me. 
It  was  the  afternoon,  and  round  the  bed 
Her  brothers  were  all  gather'd  ;   all  but  one. 
Her  mother  held  the  sufferer  in  her  arms, 
And  her  two  sisters,  one  on  either  side, 
Gaz'd  on  her  angel  face  and  silent  wept. 
She  never  in  her  loveliest  hour  had  look'd 
More  beautiful,  poor  girl  !  than  she  did  then. 
When  suddenly  a  loud  and  rapid  ring 
Was  heard  at  the  hall-door.     A  letter  came, 
A  packet  for  *******.     'T  was  from  me. 
My  name  was  mention'd  in  a  whisper'd  tone 
Among  the  group,  who  ask'd  if  it  were  well 
To  tell  her  I  had  cross'd  the  ocean  safe. 
But  she  had  heard  the  sound  she  held  most  dear. 
Just  then,  one  of  the  brothers,  who  had  stepp'd 
A  moment  from  the  room,  came  softly  back. 
The  blessed  creature  open'd  her  dim  eyes, 
On  which  the  sleep  of  death  was  fast  descending, 
And  caught  the  figure,  and  she  faintly  cry'd, 
"  Oh  me !  I  thought  't  was  *******  *?  that  had  come 
Is  it  you,  *******?»     It  Was  all  she  said. 


147 


After  this  moment,  the  fast-failing  breath 
Was  heard  in  inarticulate  sounds  alone. 
And  when  the  hand  of  her  that  gave  her  life 
Press'd  on  the  beautiful  lids,  that  never  more 
Should  ope  to  shed  their  light,  oh  God  !  on  me, 
The  spirit  that  ascended  to  the  stars 
Bore  on  its  subtile,  and  invisible  essence, 
One  image  Death  could  dim,  but  not  efface. 


ODES 


13' 


PREFACE. 


ODES  are  usually  divided  by  critics  into  four  kinds ;  sacred ; 
heroic  ;  moral  ;  and  festive,  and  amatory.  This  arrangement 
would  seem  to  regard  the  relative  excellence  of  the  subject  of 
which  they  treat,  and  not  the  manner  of  the  performance ;  for 
otherwise  the  heroic  must  take  precedence  of  the  sacred,  and  the 
amatory  of  the  moral,  inasmuch  as,  from  the  very  nature  of  things 
divine,  the  sacred  ode  must  always  fall  more  or  less  below  its  scope, 
and,  apart  from  its  devotional  character,  can  seldom  be  highly 
agreeable,  while  the  amatory  derives  from  the  passion  of  love  a 
warmth  of  color,  and  a  grace  and  beauty  and  variety  of  embellish- 
ment, whereof  the  moral  ode  is  not  so  generally  nor  so  highly  sus- 
ceptible, (i)  It  may  be  added,  that  even  rating  an  ode  by  the  im- 
portance of  its  subject,  this  division  is  not  philosophical :  for  in 
such  a  case  the  moral  ode  should  certainly  be  made  of  more  ac- 
count than  that  species  of  lyric  poems  which  celebrates  the  san- 
guinary glory  of  heroes.  But  the  preference  given  to  the  latter  is 
a  relic  of  barbarism,  or  a  prescriptive  habit  which  the  evil  passions 
of  men,  and  the  admiration  that  is  more  easily  elicited  by  the  splen- 
did than  the  solid,  will  not  readily  suffer  to  be  dropped. 

Of  the  eleven  odes  which  follow,  the  three  first  come  under  the 
heroic  head ;  and  to  the  fourth  class  belong  the  remainder,  with 
two  exceptions,  Ode  VIII.,  and  Ode  IX. ;  of  which  the  latter  claims 
a  place  with  the  third  kind,  and  the  former  partakes  perhaps  of  the 
nature  of  both  this  and  the  fourth. 

(1)  Yet,  how  little  infallible  any  such  arrangement  must  be,  may  be  seen 
from  The  Progress  of  Poetry,  an  ode  which  may  be  called  didactic,  and  would 
rank  under  the  third  species,  yet  which  has  all  the  fire  and  beauty  of  the 
second. 


152  PREFACE 

No  species  of  poem  has  given  rise  to  so  much  licentiousness  in 
language,  in  imagery,  and  in  numbers,  as  the  lyric  ;  and  of  lyric 
poetry  no  form  has  displayed  so  much  extravagance  in  all  these  re- 
spects as  the  second,  or  the  heroic.  Misguided  by  the  applause 
bestowed  upon  the  flight  of  PINDAR,  poets  ever  since  his  time  have 
thought  it  necessary  only  to  spread  their  wings,  and  let  the  gale  of 
fancy  carry  them  in  any  direction,  according  to  its  immediate  cur- 
_  rerit.  Yet  surely  no  strength  of  genius  can  justify  a  departure  from 
common  sense  ;  or  rather,  genius  ceases  to  be  such,  the  moment  it 
loses  its  self-restraint.  Without  resorting  to  a  variety  of  exemplifi- 
cation, let  me  merely  instance  one  of  the  finest,  I  had  almost  said  the 
finest,  of  all  odes,  GRAY'S  Progress  of  Poetry.  In  that  ode,  which 
is  so  far  superior  to  any  composition  of  the  poet  whose  ignorance 
and  literary  envy  made  him  'malign  the  lyrist's  genius  and  misrep- 
resent his  muse,  GRAY  has  forgotten  his  judgment  twice.  First,  in 
the  second  strophe.  He  says,  in  that  superb  paraphrase  of  Pindar, 
speaking  of  the  eagle  : 

''  Quench'd  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 

The  terror  of  his  beak  and  lightning  of  his  eye  ;  " 
thus  confounding  plain  and  figurative  language,  and  mixing  meta- 
phor, in  a  single  couplet.  It  would  be  a  bold  image  to  speak  in 
any  wise  of  quenching  terror,  though  one  may  say  with  perfect 
propriety,  "  To  quench  one's  lone,"  or  "  quench  one's  rage  "  ;  but 
we  will  allow  this  license  to  the  fervor  of  the  ode  :  yet  we  cannot 
permit  the  poet  to  say,  "  Quench'd  the  terror  of  his  beak  "  ;  still 
Jess,  "  Quench'd  in  clouds  the  terror  of  his  beak  " ;  (i)  while  to 

(1)  Mixed  metaphor  ;  the  most  pardonable  of  all  faults  in  the  use  of  figures, 
because  it  arises  chiefly  from  the  poverty  of  language,  and  from  ihe  habit, 
thence  induced,  of  making,  whether  in  discourse  or  in  composition,  almost 
every  tenth  word  we  use  a  metaphor.  Of  course  it  is  frequent  in  all  the  poets. 
Even  POPE  himself  stands  chargeable  at  times  with  this  defective  painting. 
For  example,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of  the  Essay  on  Man  : 
"  O  when  along  the  stream  of  time,  thy  name 

Expanded^?/es,  and  gathers  all  its  fame." 

In  the  subsequent  line  he  had  used  sail,  in  the  rhyme ;  but  float  remained  to 
him.  Yet  does  not  the  reader  perceive  that  very  much  of  the  beauty  as  well 
as  of  the  force  of  the  couplet  would  be  lost  by  the  substitution  of  floats  for  flies'! 
Nevertheless,  the  metaphor  as  it  stands  is  in  reality  as  defective,  as  would  be 
a  picture,  wherein  the  artist,  in  order  to  give  us  an  idea  of  exceeding  swiftness, 
should  have  added  to  the  mainmast  of  a  vessel  in  full  sail  a  pair  of  wings.  The 


TO  THE  ODES.  153 

make  the  same  agent,  or  the  same  action,  quench  lightning  and  a 
simple  emotion,  is  a  fault  of  very  great  magnitude,  as  where,  in 
painting,  characters  purely  allegorical  are  mingled  with  persons 
that  are  supposed  to  have  a  real  existence.  Notwithstanding  these 
blemishes,  the  imitation  is  superior  to  the  original,  if  we  make  no 
allowance  for  our  imperfect  perception  of  what  we  have  reason  for 
supposing  was  the  melody  and  harmony  of  PINDAR'S  verse,  and 
every  allowance  for  the  known  inferiority  of  the  language  in  which 
the  imitator  wrote.  Secondly,  in  the  eighth  strophe,  we  have  : 
"  Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 

Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 

Two  coursers  of  etherial  race, 

With  necks  in  thunder  cloth'd,  and  long-resounding  pace." 
In  this  very  beautiful  passage,  the  fault  arises  from  the  poet's  hav- 
ing adopted  without  due  consideration  a  much  admired  phrase  of 
Scripture.  Supposing  tlyit  the  expression  clothed  can  be  applied  to 
the  idea  of  actual  thunder,  it  cannot  be  adapted  to  the  trope  without 
a  manifest  violation  of  propriety. 

fault  indeed  is  not  so  glaring  in  the  poem,  for  the  reasons  we  have  just  men- 
tioned ;  and  the  same  cause  which  spares  the  reader  a  shock  saves  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  author.    So  difficult  is  it  to  avoid  this  error,  that  I  have  twice  been 
guilty  of  it  knowingly.    In  Ode  HI.  I  have  written, 
Let  thy  glowing  orbs  inspire 
T[n  my  own  a  kindred  fire, 
and  in  Ode  IX., 

Di  Memoria  sull'  ali, 
Le  mie  lutte  col  Fato 
Passaro  in  mente  .  .  . 

I  say  knoinngly,  because  I  am  aware  of  it  at  present ;  though  at  the  time  I 
committed  the  error  I  was  not.  On  one  occasion,  in  the  Epistles,  I  have  cor- 
rected a  fault  of  this  nature,  and  in  the  very  heat  of  composition  ;  but  what 
a  pain  it  must  have  cost  me  the  musical  and  poetical  reader  shall  judge.  In 
the  Epiftle  to  Pope  occurs  this  passage : 

O  could  I  hope,  that  I  too  might  pretend 
To  name  myself  thy  advocate,  thy  friend  ! 
That  when  thy  sun  shall  mount,  as  mount  ere  long 
It  will  again,  the  heaven  of  wit  and  song, 
My  little  star  before  its  path  may  gleam, 
And  indicate  to  men  the  coming  beam  ! 
My  first  conception  was  this  : 

And  herald  to  the  world  the  coming  beam. 

That  I  have  cited  this  latter  instance  from  my  own  poems,  the  reader  will 
please  to  ascribe  to  the  same  motive  which  has  induced  me  to  write  the  entire 
Preface,  a  wish  to  promote  the  cause  of  sound  criticism. 


154  PREFACE 

Everybody  knows  that  it  is  easier  to  preach  than  to  practise.  I 
am  afraid  my  three  heroic  odes  will  add  but  a  new  exemplification 
of  the  saying.  It  will  not,  however,  be  by  their  extravagance.  On 
the  contrary,  it  strikes  me  that  in  my  desire  to  be  correct,  I  have 
at  times  fallen  into  lameness.  If  so,  it  is  in  an  heroic  ode  the  worse 
fault. 

In  the  two  first  of  these  poems  I  suppose  the  measure  to  be  abso- 
lutely my  own.  That  of  the  second  cost  me  many  hours  to  invent, 
as  I  had  to  deny  myself  the  advantage  of  adopting  Mr.  CAMPBELL'S, 
which  would  in  itself  have  given  fire  to  my  verse.  To  tread  in  the 
steps  of  even  that  elegant  poet  would  not  have  suited  me  in  any 
wise,  and  could  have  been  palliated  to  my  pride  only  in  case  I 
should  have  surpassed  him,  the  which  I  shall  not  be  accused  of 
affectation  when  I  say  that  I  believe  to  be  impossible;  for,  as  a 
naval  ode,  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic  has  not  its  equal,  that  I  know,  in 
any  language. 

The  love  of  military  glory  I  consider  the  most  grievous  curse 
that  has  ever  afflicted  humanity,  not  only  in  its  immediate  conse- 
quences, but  by  reason  of  the  heavy  debts  and  grinding  taxation  it 
entails  upon  posterity.  But,  as  men  will  fight,  and  as  the  only  way 
to  guard  against  insolence  and  oppression  is  to  show  one's  self  pre- 
pared to  meet  and  to  punish  it,  it  is  proper  that  the  passion  should 
be,  to  a  degree,  maintained,  especially  where,  as  in  our  case,  it  can 
be  done  without  pandering  oppression  or  encouraging  injustice. 
All  of  our  battles,  hitherto,  may  be  said,  without  profaneness,  to 
have  been  those  of  GOD. 

As  german  to  the  matter  of  these  three  pieces,  I  have  added  a 
translation  of  a  poen^_of_BERANGER's,  which  does  not  indeed  as- 
pire to  the  character  of  an  ode,  but  certainly  rises  above  that  of  a 
song,  which  alone  it  claims  to  be.  It  will  be  thought,  that  in  the 
second  stanza  the  FRENCHMAN  assumes  rather  too  much  credit  for 
his  country,  in  ascribing  directly  to  her  exertions  the  defeat  of  the 
BRITISH.  But  we  will  not  quarrel  with  him  on  that  score. 

Of  the  amatory  odes  I  have  little  to  say,  except  upon  the  meas- 
ure. Some  of  them  I  had  not  written  were  it  not  for  the  purpose 
of  introducing  something  new,  in  the  poetry  at  least  of  AMERICA, 
and^I  am  inclined  to  think  in  that  of  ENGLAND.  I  allude  to 


TO  THE  ODES.  155 

Odes  VII.,  VIII.,  X.,  and  XI.  The  measure  of  the  two  former  is 
borrowed  from  the  Italian. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said,  I  think  by  that  ablest  of  critics,  Dr. 
JOHNSON, (i)  that  to  make  the  difficulty  of  a  task  a  claim  to  public 
favor  is  rather  absurd,  since,  if  there  were  no  difficulty  in  the  oper- 
ation, where  would  be  the  merit  of  a  performance  ?  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  enhance  the  little  value  of  my  seventh  and  eighth  odes  by 

(1)  The  same  envy,  which  would  deny  to  POPE  any  other  poetical  merit  than 
a  skill  in  versification  as  yet  never  equalled,*  confines  its  reluctant  praise  of 
the  Lives  of  the  Poets  to  the  elaborate  elegance  of  the  diction,  and  to  the  pro- 
foundness of  the  moral  observations  which  give  them  so  striking  a  peculiarity 
when  compared  with  other  critical  biography  ;  thus  endeavouring  to  make 
atonement  to  conscience  for  the  falsehood  which  asperses  their  exactness.  The 
meanness  of  the  mass  of  writers,  poets  as  well  as  critics,  shrinks  like  the  owl 
from  the  noonday  blaze  of  perfection,  and  affects  to  disbelieve  that  extreme 
correctness  and  finish  can  be  found  united  with  brilliant  fancy,  or  that  strong 
good  sense  can  be  the  constant  companion  of  a  vigorous  imagination,  while  it 
would  divorce  altogether  critical  acumen  from  the  study  of  embellishment,  and 
deny  that  the  same  man  can  be  at  once  a  writer  himself  and  a  judge  of  the 
writings  of  others.  Hence,  we  have  the  weak  and  childish  mind  of  WORDS- 
WORTH assuming  a  right  to  censure  the  manly  and  vigorous  genius  of  POPE, 
the  drivelling  conceit  of  the  egotist  SOUTHEY  libelling  as  "fop  finery"  the 
elegance  and  lovely  art  of  a  poet  whose  perfection  is  wormwood  to  his  invidi- 
ous spirit,  and  every  small  reviewer  pretending  to  convict  of  malignity  the 
ratiocination  of  a  mind  whose  honesty  could  not  bedazzled  by  enthusiasm, 
and  whose  penetration  no  disguise  of  human  vanity  could  elude.  If  we  set 
aside  all  that  splendor  of  illustration  in  the  Lives  of  tke  Poets,  which  showed 
the  mind  of  JOHNSON  to  be  of  kin  to  the  spirits  over  which  he  sat  as  judge,  if 
we  exclude  from  it  all  the  moral  remarks  which  are  alone  in  greater  quantity 
and  of  more  individual  value  than  any  similar  congeries  to  be  found  elsewhere, 
we  have  yet  a  criticism  which,  take  it  all  in  all,  leaves  far  behind  it  any  like 
result  of  ancient  or  modern  effort.  Divest  ourselves  of  all  prejudice  in  favor  of 
antiquity,  and  forget  the  advantages  which  a  modern  critic  possesses  in  the 
works  of  those  who  have  preceded  him,  and  we  must  put  Dr.  JOHNSON  higher 
on  the  critical  bench  than  even  LONGINCS  ;  nor  have  I  any  doubt  in  asserting 
(since  I  do  not  fear  that  my  judgment  can  be  impugned  by  facts  or  by  sound 
argument)  that  SHAKSPEARE  himself  has  not  shown  more  knowledge  of  hu- 
man nature  as  a  poet  than  has  Dr.  JOHNSON  as  a  biographer.  Nothing  escapes 
him,  he  is  never  blinded  or  dazzled  ;  and  rarely  indeed  will  his  judgment  even 
in  mere  verbal  criticism  be  found  to  be  erroneous. 

•  Lately,  in  turning  over  the  books  of  a  lady's  collection,  I  came  across  the  feast  of  the  Poets, 

erously  assigning  to  POPE  the  better  qualities  of  a  poet,  but  denying  to  him  any  correct  knowl- 
edge or  taste  in  the  making  of  verses.  So  that  between  Mr.  HUNT  and  Dr.  SOUTHEY  on  one 
side,  and  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  ami  some  dozen  Reviews  on  the  other,  poor  POPE  absolutely 
vanishes  as  an  author,  body  and  clothing. 


156  PREFACE 

advising  the  reader  of  the  effort  with  which  they  have  been  con- 
structed, because  of  the  paucity  of  double  rhymes  in  English.  In 
selecting  for  imitation  two  of  the  favorite  measures  of  the  Italian 
canzoni,  my  object  was  merely  to  introduce  into  my  native  lan- 
guage new  metres  which  I  thought  would  enrich  its  poetry,  al- 
though bearing  with  them  almost  an  impracticability  for  frequent 
composition,  inasmuch  as  the  difference  between  Italian  and  Eng- 
lish accent,  the  former  being  usually  on  the  penultima  and  ours  on 
the  last  syllable  of  dissyllabic  words,  makes,  what  is  in  Italian  verse 
an  ordinary  rhyme,  a  double  one  in  ours,  (i)  But  I  cannot  neglect 
eo  favorable  an  opportunity  to  bring  forward  certain  remarks  upon 
the  present  slate  of  versification,  and  that  slovenly  practice  of  gov- 
erning the  modulation  of  the  line  merely  by  sound,  which,  from  the 
great  facility  it  gives  to  the  poet,  is  so  generally  adopted.  In  ex- 
planation of  this  position,  it  will  be  permitted  me  I  hope  to  make 
use  of  certain  of  my  own  stanzas,  by  showing  how  they  might 
have  appeared,  had  I  availed  myself  of  that  indulgence  which  is 
conceded  to  all  rythmical  writers  of  the  present  day,  and  is  em- 
braced more  or  less  by  all  the  poets  of  this  country,  with  one  or 
perhaps  with  two  exceptions. 

Taking  Ode  VIII.  for  my  illustration,  it  will  be  observed  that  the 
measure  consists  of  six  syllables,  —  as  the  accent  of  the  final  word 
of  every  verse  properly  determines  its  length,  and  the  last  syllable 
in  the  present  case  is  therefore  redundant : 

0  loveliest  of  bow  \  crs. 

Now,  as  the  writer  goes  on  with  his  work,  the  mere  melody  of  the 
measure  suggests  to  him  in  a  subsequent  stanza, 

She  listen'd  to  my  story, 

And  believ'd  the  love  I  taught  her,  etc. ; 
and  elsewhere, 

Then  long  we  seem'd  attending 

To  the  cricket's  lazy  chorus, 

With  the  murmur  softly  blending 

Of  the  rivulet  before  us,  etc. 
But  he  perceives  at  once,  that  though  musical,  these  verses  are  not 

(1)  Either  of  these  measures,  however,  can  be  made  easy  for  English  poetry 
by  throwing  off  the  last  syllable,  which  may  be  said  to  be  redundant  even  in 
Italian.  The  verse,  though  not  so  rich  as  it  is  now.  will  still  have  sweetness. 


TO  THE  ODES.  157 

accurately  so;  as  musicians  would  say,  they  have  tune  but  not 
rylhm  ;  thus  : 

She  listen'd  to  my  story, 

And  |  believ'd  the  love  I  taught  her; 
and, 

Then  long  we  seem'd  attending 

To     |  the  cricket's  lazy  chorus, 

With  |  the  murmurs  softly  blending 

Of     |  the  rivulet  before  us. 

If  he  permit  himself  to  admit  them  as  they  are,  his  task  is  easy  ; 
the  reader,  ten  to  one,  will  not  perceive  the  negligence,  because 
the  flow  of  the  verse  is  graceful ;  but  the  poet  must  stand  con- 
demned for  want  of  art,  and  for  inferiority  of  genius,  since  the 
test  of  his  abilities  must  be  found  in  his  skill  to  overcome  obstacles. 
There  are  indeed  occasions  when  the  rule  which  demands  ex- 
actness of  rythm  may  apparently  be  violated,  and  with  advantage  ; 
but  it  is  only  apparently.  I  mean  where  such  words  as  beautiful, 
delicate,  desolate,  and  the  like  occur  in  the  middle  of  a  line.  Here, 
the  accent  being  on  the  first  syllable,  the  voice  is  compelled  to  pass 
so  lightly  over  the  sequent  one,  that  it  is  in  fact  slurred,  and  the 
time  in  pronouncing  beautiful,  delicate,  and  desolate,  is  in  fact  but 
two  movements  although  there  are  three  syllables  ;  these  three  being 
enunciated  more  quickly  than  would  be  any  other  three  in  the  line, 
or  in  other  words  in  the  same  time  as  two  syllables,  or  a  single 
foot.(i)  It  is  upon  the  same  principle  that  in  music  we  make  a 
variety :  the  piece  before  us  is  marked  |,  |,  (double,  triple  time,) 
etc.,  but,  in  the  same  times,  we  may  introduce  a  greater  or  less 
number  of  notes  at  pleasure. 

This  grace  (for  such  it  is,  when  used  with  discretion)  is  by  no 
means  modern.  Not  to  speak  of  the  capacity  of  the  ancient  meas- 
ures, which  admitted,  under  certain  circumstances,  many  syllables 
beyond  the  usual  number  supposed  to  constitute  the  verse,  and  of 
the  modern  Italian,  which  are  regulated  precisely  on  the  same 
principle,  though  it  may  be  under  a  different  name,  —  passing 
these,  we  have  MILTON  in  our  own  language  using  this  very  orna- 
ment which  is  now  so  common,  and,  I  think,  somewhat  extrava- 
gantly prevalent. 

(0  A  like  exception  occurs  when  the  accent  is  on  the  second  syllable  in  words 
of  four  syllables ;  as  magnificent,  disconsolate,  superlative,  etc. 
14 


158  PREFACE 

In  the  time  of  POPE  it  was  common  to  syncopate  the  redundant 
vowel.  Thus  we  have  heaven  written  heav'n ;  bower,  (to  rhyme 
with  hour,)  bow'r  ;  and  the  like.  This  was  done,  not  only  where 
the  redundant  letter  was  wholly  silent,  but  even  where  it  might 
with  advantage  have  been  slightly  sounded.  The  better  practice  in 
these  cases  is  undoubtedly  to  leave  the  vowel  in,  though  there  are 
times  when  it  would  be  well  omitted.  In  the  latter  instances,  the 
taste  of  the  poet  must  be  the  only  guide. 

There  are  also  occasions  when,  in  certain  measures,  exactness 
may  apparently  be  violated  by  curtailing  a  verse.  The  rythm  is  in 
this  case  preserved  by  shifting  the  place  of  the  inceptive  accent. 
For  example,  in  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  the  first  strophe  commences 
thus: 

Of  Mlson  and  the  Worth 
Sing  the  gldrious  day's  renoum. 

The  rythm  in  both  these  verses  is  the  same ;  yet  the  first  has  but 
six  syllables,  while  the  second  numbers  seven  (glorious  being  of  the 
class  of  trisyllables  just  mentioned).  So  in  the  same  ode,  the  fifth 
verse  of  the  stanza,  which  is  decasyllabic  in  the  three  first  strophes, 
becomes  elsewhere  a  verse  of  nine  syllables,  by  a  like  disposition  of 
the  initial  accent.  Thus  : 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone. 
Their  sh6ts  along  the  deep  slowly  boom. 

It  will,  I  trust,  be  deemed  not  altogether  irrelevant  to  the  sub- 
ject of  poetic  rythm,  that  I  further  extend  this  Preface  by  an  ex- 
amination of  the  pretensions  of  one  of  the  greatest  corrupters  of 
verse  that  the  age  has  known.  I  would  do  for  Mr.  SOUTHEY  here, 
what  I  have  sought  to  do  in  the  Vision  for  Mr.  WORDSWORTH, — 
expose  the  imbecility  of  much  of  his  own  poetry,  and  examine  his 
ignorant  or  his  malevolent  misrepresentation  of  the  poetry  of  others. 
I  make  it  a  particular  and  most  earnest  request  of  the  reader  that 
he  will  not  pass  this  matter,  either  through  want  of  sympathy  with 
my  tastes  and  my  motives,  or  from  a  fear  of  being  wearied  with  a 
dry  and  tedious  dissertation.  My  own  interest  will  insure  him 
brevity  in  the  criticism ;  and  for  my  motives,  I  have  but  one ;  one, 
for  which  alone,  it  seems  to  me,  I  have  lived  for  these  five  last 
years,  and  for  which  I  am  ready  to  devote  as  many  more,  namely, 
the  endeavour  to  stay,  if  possible,  that  rapid  decline  of  good  taste  in 


TO  THE  ODES.  159 

literature  which  false  poets  and  falser  critics  have  been  and  are  so 
assiduous  in  promoting.  In  this  cause  I  shall  think  no  exertion, 
however  difficult,  too  arduous,  no  effort,  however  small,  too  incon- 
siderable : 

"  Son  pronto ad  ogni  impresa  : 

L'  alte  non  temo,  e  1'  umili  non  sdegno." 

(TAss.  G.  L.  il  46.) 

For  the  sake  of  brevity,  and  for  the  greater  entertainment  of  the 
reader,  the  plan  which  I  adopted  in  the  Vision  with  regard  to  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  poetry  and  misrepresentations,  I  will  pursue  with 
Mr.  SOUTHEY'S.  It  is  to  examine  the  opinions  in  his  Prefaces,  and 
see  how  they  are  sustained  by  his  performance. 

I.  Preface  to  Thalaba. 

*  *  *  *  "Let  me  not  be  supposed  to  prefer  the  rhythm  in  which  it  is 
written,  abstractly  considered,  to  the  regular  blank  verse  ;  the  noblest 
measure,  in  my  judgment,  of  which  our  language  is  capable.  For  the 
following  poem,  I  have  preferred  it,  because  it  suits  the  varied  subject ; 
it  is  the  arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale. 

"  The  dramatic  sketches  of  Dr.  Sawyers,  a  volume  which  no  lover  of 
poetry  will  recollect  without  pleasure,  induced  me,  when  a  young  versi- 
fier, to  practise  in  this  rhythm.  I  felt  that  while  it  gave  the  poet  a 
wider  range  of  expression,  it  satisfied  the  ear  of  the  reader." 

Let  the  reader  judge  : 

"  The  night  is  come,  no  fears  disturb 

The  dreams  of  innocence; 
They  trust  in  kingly  faith  and  kingly  oaths, 
They  sleep,  . .  alas  !  they  sleep  ! 

"  Go  to  the  palace,  would'st  thou  know 

How  hideous  night  can  be  ; 
Eye  is  not  clos'd  in  those  accursed  walls, 
.Nor  heart  at  quiet  there." 

St.  Bartholomew's  Day. 

This  is  dated  1798,  and  is  taken,  at  the  opening  of  the  look,  from 
one  of  the  three  volumes  of  his  Minor  Poems.  Now  let  us  see  if 
Thalala,  (a  fine  poem,  be  it  observed,  a  verv  fine  poem  in  some 
parts,  notwithstanding  the  bad  taste  and  vanity  which  dictated  its 
strange  medley  of  rythm,)  let  us  see  if  Thalaba  better  satisfy  the 


160  PREFACE 

ear.  We  shall  take,  as  before,  what  may  happen  to  come  first  on 
opening  the  volume. —  It  proves  to  be  not  the  worst  sample  of  Mr. 
SOCTBEY'B  singular  numbers ;  but  it  will  answer.  It  is  the  com- 
mencement of  the  third  Book. 

"THALABA. 

Oneiza,  look  !  the  dead  man  has  a  ring : 
Should  it  be  buried  with  him  ? 

ONEIZA. 
Oh  yes  . .  yes  ! 
A  wicked  man  !    What  e'er  is  his  mast  needs 

Be  wicked  too ! " 

This  is  certainly  about  as  musical  as  it  is  poetical. 
Mr.  SOCTHEY  continues,  on  the  metre  of  T/ialaba  : 

"  It  were  easy  to  make  a  parade  of  learning  by  enumerating  the  va- 
rious feet  which  it  admits ;  it  is  only  needful  to  observe,  that  no  two 
lines  are  employed  in  sequence  which  can  be  read  into  one."  [See  the 
lines  above.]  *  *  « 

"  One  advantage  this  metre  assuredly  possesses,  —  the  dullest  reader 
cannot  distort  it  to  discord  :  he  may  read  it  prosaically,  but  its  flow  and 
fall  will  be  perceptible." 

Let  us  see,  again  at  the  opening  of  the  book  : 

"  Deserts  of  Araby  ! 
His  soul  return'd  to  you. 
He  cast  himself  upon  the  earth, 
And  clos'd  bis  eyes,  and  call'd 
The  voluntary  vision  up. 
A  cry,  as  of  distress, 
Arous'd  him  ;  loud  it  came  and  near! 
He  started  up,  he  strung  his  bow, 

He  pluck'd  the  arrow  forth. 
Again  a  shriek  . .  a  woman's  shriek  ! 
And  lo !  she  rushes  through  the  trees, 
Her  veil  all  rent,  her  garments  torn  1 "  etc. 
vi.28. 

The  reader  must  have  indeed  good  ears,  that  can  perceive  the 
"  Sow  and  fall "  of  these  verses,  even  when  he  reads  them  poeti- 
cally. We  have  seen  an  experiment  tried  by  no  indifferent  hand, 


TO  THE  ODES.  161 

who  read  the  poem  with  all  the  help  he  could  give  to  the  measure ; 
and  his  hearers  complained,  (familiar  too  with  poetry  and  num- 
bers,) that  they  could  not  know  what  measure  he  was  reading,  and 
supposed  it  to  be  the  regular  blank  heroic  verse,  but  badly  and  in- 
harmoniously  written.  However, 

"  Verse,"  proceeds  Mr.  SOUTHEY,  "  is  not  enough  favored  by  the 
English  reader.  [Granted.]  Perhaps  this  is  owing  to  the  obtrusiveness, 
the  regular  Jews-harp  ttring-liraiig,  [see  again  his  own  verses  above.] 
of  what  has  been  foolishly  called  heroic  measure." 

Here  again,  have  we  the  repetition  of  that  abuse  of  POPE,  which 
sits  with  so  little  grace  upon  both  Mr.  SOUTH EY  and  Mr.  WORDS- 
WORTH. The  very  tone  in  which  it  is  conveyed,  shows  the  irrita- 
tion under  which  it  was  written  ;  and  we  perceive  Uiat  when  Mr. 
SOUTHEY  falls  foul  of  POPE'S  "  fop-finery,"  it  is  in  the  same  spirit 
which  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  displays,  the  spirit  of  titt  man  tcho,  as 
BYRON  says,  with  a  happy  adaptation  of  the  story  to  this  very  case, 
teas  tired  of  hearing  ARISTIDKS  for  eter  coiled  the  Just.  If  the 
reader  would  be  convinced  of  this,  let  him  but  turn  to  those  verses, 
which  Mr.  SOUTHEY  has  himself  written  in  the  foolishly-caUcd- 
heroic  measure;  he  will  find  that  they  are  an  imitation  of  GOLD- 
SMITH, that  they  have  the  sweetness  of  ROGERS,  and  his  medioc- 
rity, nor  ever  rise  to  that  condensed  energy  which  has  made  POPE 
preeminent  in  numbers. 

BYRON  has  somewhere  said,  that  on  comparing  his  own  and  the 
compositions  of  other  modern  poets  with  POPE'S  he  was  always 
struck  with  their  vast  inferiority.  Let  the  reader,  adopting  this 
plan,  contrast  the  best  poetry  of  either  SOCTHEY  or  WORDSWORTH 
with  any  of  the  compositions  of  POPE,  and  he  will  at  once  be  struck 
with  the  disproportion.  He  will  see  that  while  POPE  shall  say  in 
two  lines  what  either  of  these  poets  would  expand  to  ten,  and  one 
of  them  (WORDSWORTH)  to  a  hundred,  he  possesses  more  energy 
and  graphic  power  in  individual  expressions,  more  melody  of 
phrase,  more  harmony  in  metre,  more  variety,  and  more  fancy. 
Add  to  these  (mere  charms  and  powers  of  style)  the  strong  good- 
sense,  the  wit,  the  observation  of  POPE,  and  how  suddenlv  the 
author  of  Mador  and  of  the  old  Woman  of  Berkley,  and  the  author 
of  the  i:.n-nr.--u>n  and  of  the  Wagoner,  sink  into  insignificance ! 
14* 


162  PREFACE 

II.  Preface  to  Joan  of  Arc. 

Mr.  SODTHEY,  who  prefers  STATIUS  to  VIRGIL,  whom  he  allows 
only  good  taste,  finds  fault  with  all  epic  poems  but  HOMER'S,  and 
thus,  like  Mr.  WORDSWORTH,  prepares  us  to  find  something  better 
in  his  own. 

"  I  have,"  he  says,  "  avoided  what  seems  useless  and  wearying  in 
other  poems,  and  my  readers  will  find  no  descriptions  of  armor,  no 
muster-rolls,  no  geographical  catalogues,  lion,  tiger,  bull,  bear,  and 
boar  similes,  Phoebuses  or  Auroras.  And  where  in  battle  I  have  par- 
ticularized the  death  of  an  individual,  it  is  not  I  hope  like  the  common 
lists  of  killed  and  wounded." 

Yet,  in  the  Seventh  Book,  (which  is  as  far  as  I  could  read  in  his 
bald  blank  verses,)  we  have  this  very  fine  lion  simile  : 

"  Not  with  more  dismay, 
When  over  wild  Caffraria's  wooded  hills 
Echoes  the  lion's  roar,  the  timid  herd 
Fly  the  death-boding  wound." 

And  in  the  same  Book  we  have  the  following  specimen  of  a 
duel,  which,  it  will  be  allowed,  is  indeed  "not  like  the  common 
lists  of  killed  and  wounded,"  doubtless  in  HOMER,  VIRGIL,  and 
their  imitators : 

"  Upon  her  shield  the  martial  maiden  bore 
An  English  warrior's  blow,  and  in  his  side 
Pierc'd  him.  (i)   That  instant  Salisbury  sped  his  sword, 
Which  glancing  from  her  helm  fell  on  the  folds 
That  arm'd  her  neck,  and  making  there  its  way, 
Stain'd  with  her  blood  its  edge." 

What  can  equal  the  critical  insolence  of  this  mistaking  versifier, 
save  his  enormous  self-complacency  ?  and  where  shall  we  parallel 
either,  unless  it  be  in  the  parallel  vulgarities  of  WILLIAM  WORDS- 
WORTH ? 

(1)  By  the  by,  this  is  one  of  the  disagreeable  peculiarities  of  Mr.  SOUTHEY'S 
style,  the  commencing  of  a  verse  with  a  word  of  two  syllables,  or  with  two 
monosyllabic  words,  which  are  disconnected  altogether  from  the  sense  of  that 
verse,  and  belong  inseparably  to  the  verse  preceding.  In  the  present  case  it  is 
unquestionably  an  attempt  to  imitate,  by  endeavouring  to  accommodate  the 
language  to  the  action  attempted  to  be  described,  the  very  poet  whose  great- 
ness Mr.  SOUTHEY  affects  to  despise. 


TO  THE  ODES.  163 

III.  Preface  or  Advertisement  of  the  Eclogues. 
"  With  bad  eclogues  I  am  sufficiently  acquainted,  from  Tityrus  and 
Corydon  down  to  our  Strephons  and  Thirsisses.  No  kind  of  poetry 
can  boast  of  more  illustrious  names,  or  is  more  distinguished  by  the 
servile  dulness  of  imitated  nonsense.  [Imitated  dulness  has  usually  been 
thought  a  cause  of  less  reproach  than  the  dulness  which  is  original ; 
and  of  this  latter  kind  Mr.  SOUTHEY'S  Eclogues  are  a  very  fair  speci- 
men.] Pastoral  writers, '  more  silly  than  their  sheep,'  have,  like  their 
sheep,  gone  on  in  the  same  track  one  after  another.  Gay  stumbled  into 
a  new  path.  His  eclogues  were  the  only  ones  which  interested  me  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  did  not  know  they  were  burlesque."  [If  the  reader 
has  never  seen  these  pieces  of  GAY'S,  I  need  but  mention  that  the 
name  of  one  of  the  heroines  is  Blouzelind,  to  satisfy  him  of  the  early 
delicacy  of  taste  which  we  have  seen  at  a  later  day  expanded  and  fully 
fragrant  in  Joan  of  Arc  and  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkley.'} 

However,  these  observations  on  pastoral  writing  are  in  the  same 
spirit  in  which  the  author  of  JUador  has  noticed  VIRGIL  with  con- 
temptuous levity,  and  blackguarded  POPE'S  translation  of  (he  Iliad. 
They  are  in  the  same  spirit  with  which  the  same  modest  and  amia- 
ble writer  has  said  of  BONAPARTE  : 

"  But  evil  was  his  good, 
For  all  too  long  in  blood  had  he  been  nurst, 
And  ne'er  was  earth  with  fouler  tyrant  curst. 

Bold  man  and  bad, 

Remorseless,  godless,  FULL  OF  FRAUD  AND  LIES, 
And  BLACK  WITH  MURDERS  and  with  perjuries, 
HIMSELF  IN  HELL'S  WORST  PANOPLY  HE  CLAD  ; 
No  law  but  his  own  headstrong  will  he  knew, 
No  counsellor  but  his  own  wicked  heart. 
From  evil  thus  portentous  strength  he  drew, 

And  TRAMPLED  UNDER  FOOT  ALL  HUMAN  TIES, 

All  holy  laws,  all  natural  charities." 

"  Ode  written  during  the  Negotiations  with  Bonaparte  in 
January,  1814." 

The  exaggeration  in  either  case  is  about  equal,  and  equally  honor- 
able to  the  head  and  heart  of  the  writer.  If  it  little  became  a 
BRITON,  the  subject  of  a  government  which  has  been,  and  is,  guilty 
of  as  much  tyranny  and  oppression  as  BONAPARTE  ever  exercised 
over  sovereigns  weaker  than  himself,  if  it  little  became  a  British 


164  PREFACE  TO  THE  ODES. 

subject  to  use  this  language  towards  the  Emperor  of  FRANCE,  so 
did  it  little  become  the  writer  of  dialogues  which  do  not  rise  above 
mediocrity,  to  speak  with  levity  of  the  Eclogues  of  VIRGIL,  or  to 
insinuate  contempt  of  the  Pastorals  of  POPE.  I  do  not  mean  to 
extenuate  the  offence  against  nature  into  which  POPE  certainly  fell 
in  those  juvenile  compositions,  (though,  faulty  as  they  are,  who  that 
has  ears,  who  that  has  fancy,  who  that  has  a  soul,  would  not  rather 
be  the  author  of  them  than  of  Mr.  SOUTHEY'S  so  called  Eclogues?) 
but  I  protest  against  the  disrespect  with  which  Mr.  SOUTHEY  has 
presumed  to  speak  of  a  greater  name  than  his  own  is,  or  ever  will 
be.  Surely,  it  is  in  bad  taste,  if  nothing  worse,  to  affect  a  scorn  of 
a  poet  so  highly  honored  hi  his  time,  and  since,  as  ALEXANDER 
POPE.  But,  leaving  this  to  the  just  judgment  of  posterity,  whose 
indignation  will  be  not  less  than  my  own,  let  me  ask  for  what 
cause  Mr.  SOUTHEY  gave  the  name  of  Eclogues  to  his  rustic  dia- 
logues ?  Should  he  not  have  been  ashamed  to  imitate,  without 
reason,  a  title  which  cannot,  that  I  see,  apply  to  his  own  pieces, 
when  he  affects  to  despise  an  imitation  of  the  beauties  in  style  and 
in  matter  of  him  who  first  gave  that  title  to  a  pastoral  ? 

Hoping  that  these  remarks,  although  in  parts  greatly  digressive, 
have  not  failed  of  some  instruction,  nor  been  altogether  without 
entertainment  for  the  candid  reader,  I  proceed  once  more  with  the 
matter  promised  in  my  title-page. 


ODES. 


ODE    I. 
THE   DEATH   OF   GENERAL   PIKE, 

AT  THE  TAKING  OF  YoBK,  THE  CAPITAL  OF  UPPER  CANADA. 

APRIL  27TH,  1813. 

T  WAS  on  the  glorious  day 
When  our  valiant  triple  band  (l) 
Drove  the  British  troops  away 
From  their  strong  and  chosen  stand  ; 
When  the  city  YORK  was  taken, 
And  the  Bloody  Cross  haul'd  down 

From  the  walls  of  the  town 
Its  defenders  had  forsaken. 

The  gallant  PIKE  had  mov'd 

A  hurt  foe  to  a  spot 

A  little  more  retnov'd 

From  the  death-shower  of  the  shot  ; 

And  he  himself  was  seated 

On  the  fragment  of  an  oak, 

And  to  a  captive  spoke, 
Of  the  troops  he  had  defeated. 

(i)  The  troops  that  landed  to  the  attack  were  in  three  divisions. 


166  ODES. 

He  was  seated  in  the  place, 
Not  to  shun  the  leaden  rain 
He  had  been  the  first  to  face, 
And  now  burn'd  to  brave  again, 
But  had  chosen  that  position 
Till  the  officer's  return 

The  truth  who  'd  gone  to  learn 
Of  the  garrison's  condition. 

When  suddenly  the  ground 
With  a  dread  convulsion  shook, 
And  arose  a  frightful  sound, 
And  the  sun  was  hid  in  smoke  ; 
And  huge  stones  and  rafters,  driven 
Athwart  the  heavy  rack, 

Fell,  fatal  in  their  track 
As  the  thunderbolt  of  Heaven. 

Then  two  hundred  men  and  more, 
Of  our  bravest  and  our  best, 
Lay  all  ghastly  in  their  gore, 
And  the  hero  with  the  rest. 
On  their  folded  arms  they  laid  him  ; 
But  he  rais'd  his  dying  breath  : 

"On,  men  !  avenge  the  death 
Of  your  general !  "     They  obey'd  him. 

They  obey'd.     Three  cheers  they  gave, 
Clos'd  their  scatter'd  ranks,  and  on. 
Though  their  leader  found  a  grave, 
Yet  the  hostile  town  was  won. 


BATTLE  OF  LAKE  CHAMFLAIN.  167 

To  a  vessel  straight  they  bore  him 
Of  the  gallant  CHAUNCEY'S  fleet, 
And,  the  conquest  complete, 
Spread  the  British  flag  before  him. 

O'er  his  eyes  the  long,  last  night 
Was  already  falling  fast  ; 
But  came  back  again  the  light 
For  a  moment  ;   't  was  the  last. 
With  a  victor's  joy  they  fired. 
'Neath  his  head  by  signs  he  bade 

The  trophy  should  be  laid  ; 
And,  thus  pillow'd,  PIKE  expired. 


ODE    II. 

THE   BATTLE  OF   LAKE   CHAMPLAIN. 
SEPTEMBER  HTH,  1814. 

CHAMPLAIN  !  upon  thy  bosom  fair,  — • 
What  time  three  quarters  of  its  round 
The  Sun  had  driven  the  waning  Year, 
And  scarce  the  north  breeze  did  appear 
To  ruffle  o'er  thy  wave  profound, 
And  from  his  ridgy  eastern  bound 
Rose  up  the  Day-star  clear,  — 

'T  was  of  the  month  the  eleventh  day, 
When  near  the  river  Saranack, 
Where  thy  flood  narrows  to  a  bay, 


168  ODES. 

MACDONOUGH'S  gallant  squadron  lay. 
All  rang'd,  and  ready  for  attack  ; 
For  lo,  the  foe  !  who,  nothing  slack, 
Have  long  been  under  weigh. 

They  come  ;  they  nigh.     In  line  they  form. 
Their  bows  are  tow'rd  the  western  shore. 
And  now  begins  the  battle's  storm  ; 
And  clouds  of  smoke  the  sky  deform, 
And  the  death-dealing  cannon  roar, 
And  faster  yet  their  missiles  pour 
As  grows  the  fight  more  warm. 

Hark  !  from  the  fleet  the  shout  that  rings  ! 
Two  flags  are  lower'd  where  float  the  foe. 
But  now  their  Captain's  frigate  springs 
Her  broadside,  and  her  thunder  flings. 
Ship  of  proud  name  (i),  thou  feel'st  the  wo  ! 
Thy  ribs  are  shatter'd  by  the  blow, 
And  riven  thy  snowy  wings. 

Lo,  her  last  fighting  gun  o'erthrown  !  — 
Crippled,  not  dead,  the  ship  is  wound, 
Amid  the  raking  broadsides  thrown, 
Not  from  one  active  foe  alone, 
And  slowly,  gallantly,  swings  round  ; 
And  her  whole  tier  with  horrid  sound 
One  blaze  of  lightning  shone.  (2) 

(1)  The  Saratoga.     So  called,  I  presume,  from  the  battle  of  that 
name. 

(2)  This  is  one  of  those  beautiful  and  bold  manoeuvres,  which 


BATTLE  OF  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN.  169 

'T  is  done.     Twice  seven  flags  and  more 
Descending  in  the  British  fleet 
Announce  the  well-fought  battle  o'er. 
And  see  !  even  now,  on  yonder  shore, 
In  sight,  where  ALBION'S  army,  beat, 
Before  the  Silver  Stars  retreat, 
And  double  shame  deplore. 

They  march'd  on  land  ;  they  sail'd  on  wave  ; 
Greater  in  force,  —  assur'd,  - —  prepar'd. 
Their  ancient  fame  its  impulse  gave, 
The  sting  of  recent  losses  drave  ; 
And  well  and  valiantly  they  dar'd. 
But  each  a  like  misfortune  shar'd. 
All  honor  to  the  brave  ! 

Peace  to  St.  George  !  to  boast  is  vain.  — 
For  thee,  thou  hero  of  that  day, 
Though  never  wilt  thou  fight  again, 

distinguished  our  navy  in  every  action,  in  the  last  war,  and  whichr 
with  its  superior  gunnery,  were  the  cause  of  its  triumphs  over  an 
enemy  of  equal  valor,  and  sometimes,  as  in  the  present  case,  of 
greater  force.  The  Saratoga,  with  not  a  single  gun  left  on  her 
fighting  side,  with  one  fourth  of  her  crew  dead  or  disabled,  instead 
of  surrendering,  was  wound,  by  means  of  a  hawser  which  had  pre- 
viously to  the  action  been  passed  under  her  bows  by  the  fore- 
thought of  the  Commodore,  and  was  now  made  available  by  the 
coolness  and  courage  of  the  Master.  This  was  done  in  the  very 
face  of  a  raking  fire  from  two  of  the  opposed  squadron,  till  by  de- 
grees all  the  guns  upon  her  sound  side  were  brought  to  bear.  In 
nothing  does  a  ship  appear  more  ''  like  a  thing  of  life,"  than  in 
such  manoeuvres.  In  this  respect,  it  presents  a  marked  difference 
from  the  immoveable  fortress ;  and,  in  this  respect,  it  is  peculiarly 
poetical. 

15 


170  ODES. 

Laid  where  the  sun  warms  not,  nor  rain 
Can  wet  thee,  yet  the  unfading  bay 
Lake  him  of  Erie  shall  repay 
The  victor  of  Champlain. 


ODE    III. 
THE  DEFENCE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

jA.frAHT  »TH,  1815. 

NOT  with  sounds  of  triumph  now 
Shall  the  harp  of  battles  ring 
Such  as  bards  with  laurell'd  brow 
Strike  in  honor  of  a  king  : 
They  are  bought,  both  lyre  and  voice, 
And  obey  not  Truth  nor  Choice 
In  the  solemn  hymns  they  raise  ; 
But  my  chords  and  song  are  free  ; 
Justice  prompts,  and  Liberty 
Beats  the  measure  of  my  praise. 

Come,  thou  goddess  of  the  land 
Where  the  eagle  builds  his  nest  ! 
By  me  take  thy  wonted  stand, 
In  thy  loose  and  flowing  vest  : 
Let  thy  glowing  orbs  inspire 
In  my  own  a  kindred  fire, 
While  my  daring  fingers  fly  ; 
Mix  with  mine  thy  tones  that  burn  ; 
So  shall  men  enraptor'd  learn 
How  for  thee  to  dare  and  die  ! 


DEFENCE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  171 

Undeterr'd  by  recent  loss, 
Strong  in  numbers  and  in  pride, 
'Neath  their  banner's  sanguine  cross, 
March'd  the  legions  deep  and  wide  : 
Twice  six  thousand  men  and  more  ; 
And  among  them  numbers  bore 
Scaling  ladder  and  fascine  : 
These  to  choke  the  fosse,  and  those 
On  the  rampart  set  the  foes 
Where  the  blazon 'd  stars  are  seen. 

Say,  what  rampart  these  defies  ? 
Who  the  brave  its  heights  that  man  ? 
No  wall'd  town  is  that  which  lies 
Twixt  the  fens  and  Ponchartrain  : 
T  is  a  simple  breastwork  shields 
Those  who  guard  their  native  fields 
From  the  fires  that  threaten  now  ; 
And  the  brave,  —  behold  their  host  ! 
Mix'd,  part  new  to  arms,  and  most 
Craftsmen  bred,  or  from  the  plough. 

Fear  not  therefore  for  thy  towers, 
ORLEANS  of  the  Western  World  ! 
Heavy  though  the  cloud  that  lowers, 
Shall  no  thunder-stone  be  hurl'd. 
On  their  spires  the  rain  that  falls 
Will  but  cleanse  the  dust-gray  walls 
Brighter  for  the  coming  sun. 
Know,  the  swords  by  tyrants  paid 
Match  not  Freedom's  stainless  blade, 
Though  they  glitter  two  for  one  ! 


172  ODES. 

Hark,  the  cannon's  awful  peal  ! 

And  to  heaven  ascends  the  smoke  ; 

And  the  foe  is  seen  to  reel 

For  an  instant  'neath  the  stroke  : 

But  the  broken  columns  close  ; 

And  again  the  death-shot  mows 

Down  their  ranks.     Yet  on,  again, 

On,  with  courage  not  the  less, 

Through  the  sulphurous  shower  they  press, 

Furious  for  revenge.     In  vain  ! 

Rang'd  upon  the  bankette  (i)  stand 

They  the  rifled  tube  that  bear. 

Wait  they  but  the  brief  command, 

While  the  invading  cohorts  near. 

God  of  armies  !  now  't  is  given 

'T  seems  as  though  the  fire  of  Heaven, 

That  on  SODOM  fell  of  yore, 

Lit  the  line,  or  fiercer  yet,  — 

Embrasure  and  parapet 

Such,  so  fast,  their  lightnings  pour. 

What  the  Lion  now  avails 
Valor,  pride,  and  practis'd  pow'r  ? 
Strung  in  vain,  his  sinews  fail, 
Shrunken  in  that  mortal  hour. 
Round  his  head  the  Eagle  flies, 
Joy  and  vengeance  in  her  eyes, 

(i)  Banquette,  in  fortification,  is  a  bank  of  inconsiderable  eleva- 
tion raised  at  the  foot  of  the  inside  of  the  parapet  (breastwork),  to 
enable  the  musketeers  to  fire  over  the  upper  part. 


DEFENCE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  173 

Mocking  at  his  bloodless  fang  : 
Wet  her  talons  are  with  gore, 
And  above  his  feebled  roar 
Rise  her  scream  and  pennons'  clang. 

From  his  throne  of  living  light, 
O'er  the  carnage  of  the  field 
Looks  the  Power  that  favors  right, 
And  the  invaders'  fate  is  seal'd. 
Wing'd  by  his  avenging  breath, 
Through  the  air  the  missile  death 
Seeks  the  stirrer  of  the  strife. 
Happy  chief!  thus  early  slain, 
While  thy  troops  yet  keep  the  plain, 
Honor  sav'd,  though  lost  thy  life. 

Yet  a  few,  behold,  have  sprung 
O'er  the  moat !     They  climb  the  wall ! 
Now  they  shout,  and  now  are  flung 
Downward,  dead  or  dying,  all. 
Beaten  thrice,  the  Lion's  brood, 
Every  step  distilling  blood, 
Fly  and  leave  the  Stars  to  wave 
O'er  the  free,  whose  Captain's  skill 
Conduct  lent  to  mettled  will, 
Resolution  to  the  brave. 

Goddess,  say,  (for  thou  wast  there  ; 
Thou  and  Honor  did  inspire,) 
Have  I  sung  the  deeds  that  were  ? 
Has  my  song  not  sham'd  thy  lyre  ? 
15* 


174  ODES. 

If,  with  thee  to  prompt  and  guide, 
I  have  rais'd  my  country's  pride, 
And  set  high  her  hero's  fame, 
Give  the  laurel  now  to  twine 
Round  my  brow,  this  lay  of  mine 
Coupling  with  that  hero's  name. 


LAFAYETTE   IN   AMERICA. 
FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF    BERANGEF 


REPUBLICANS,  what  train  approaches  near  ? 
"A  warrior  old  debarks  upon  our  shores." 

—  Sent  by  some  king,  new  amity  to  swear  ? 
"Kings  love  him  not,  and  he  their  rule  abhors." 

—  Is  he  of  power  ?  —  "  Alone  to  us  he  came." 

—  What  then  his  deeds  ?  —  "  He  watch'd  o'er  Freedoms' 

birth. 

Man  of  two  worlds,  undying  be  thy  fame  ! 
All  glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  ! 

"  Stranger,  in  every  part  of  this  blest  spot, 
Which  rings  with  joyful  clamors  of  applause, 
Thou  seest  prevail,  though  vassalage  is  not, 
Peace,  industry,  morality,  and  laws,  (i) 

(i)  That  Poetry,  which  usually  deals  in  fiction,  has  in  this  place 
spoken  simple  truth,  may  be  corroborated  by  another  French  writer. 
M.  DE  TOCQUEVILLE  holds  this  language: — "Nothing  is  more 
striking  to  an  European  traveller  in  khe  UNITED  STATES  than  the 
absence  of  what  we  term  the  Government,  or  the  Administration. 
Written  laws  exist  in  AMERICA,  and  one  sees  that  they  are  daily 


LAFAYETTE  IN  AMERICA.  175 

Thousands  flock  hither  by  oppression  driven  ; 
E'en  in  our  deserts  smokes  the  exile's  hearth  ; 
Man's  rights  for  judge  have  here  the  King  of  Heaven. 
All-glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  ! 

"  But  how  much  blood  this  blessing  caus'd  to  run  ! 
Sinking  we  were  :   LAFAYETTE  ran  to  aid, 
Pointed  to  FRANCE,  and,  taught  by  WASHINGTON, 
Wrestled,  o'ercame,  and  BRITAIN  no  more  sway'd. 
For  his  own  land,  for  Liberty's  dear  grace, 
Mid  sorrows  he  has  since  grown  large  in  worth. 
The  print  of  Olmutz'  fetters  we  eflace. 
All-glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  ! 

"  This  gray-hair 'd  friend,  thus  welcom'd  by  the  free, 
This  hero  whom  a  hero  call'd  his  son, 
In  times  gone-by  our  liberty's  young  tree 
Bless'd  when  to  bourgeon  first  its  stems  begun. 

executed ;  but  although  every  tiling  is  in  motion,  the  hand  which 
gives  the  impulse  to  the  social  machine  can  nowhere  be  discovered. 
*  «  *  In  no  country  in  the  world  does  the  law  hold  so  absolute 
a  language  as  in  America;  and  in  no  country  is  the  right  of  apply- 
ing it  vested  in  so  many  hands.  The  administrative  power  in  the 
UNITED  STATES  presents  nothing  either  central  or  hierarchal  in  its 
constitution ;  which  accounts  for  its  passing  unperceived.  The 
power  exists,  but  its  representative  is  not  to  be  perceived."  De- 
mocracy in  America*  A  work  I  mention  with  respect;  not  because 
its  author  has  commended  the  political  institutions  of  my  country, 
(these  need  not  the  eulogies,  as  they  regard  not  the  defamation  of 
foreigners ;  it  is  sufficient  to  mark  their  results,)  but  because  he 
has  dared  to  speak  with  freedom  of  those  of  his  own.  Democracy 
in  America  must  prove  no  insignificant  accession  to  the  means 
that  are  now  at  work  for  the  regeneration  of  FRANCE. 

*  REEVES'  Translation,  i.  pp.  88  and  90.    See  also  Vol.  ii.  chap.  vi.  Section  : 
Respect  for  the  Law  in  the  United  States. 


176  ODES. 

But  now  the  tree,  its  foliage  full-display 'd, 
Braves  the  wet  storm  and  parching  time  of  dearth 
He  comes  to  sit  beneath  its  fertile  shade. 
All-glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  ! 

"Round  him  our  sages  see,  our  men  of  place, 
The  soldiers,  who  recall  his  well-known  air, 
See  a  whole  people,  and  the  red  man's  race 
That  from  their  forests  at  his  name  repair. 
The  sacred  tree  above  this  concourse  vast 
Spreads  the  huge  shadow  of  its  mighty  girth. 
The  winds  on  soils  remote  its  seed  shall  cast. 
All-glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  !  " 

The  alien,  in  whose  heart  these  words  sank  deep, 
Serv'd  monarchs,  and  had  swell 'd  a  conqueror's  train. 
To  these  a  subject  people  incense  heap  : 
A  people  free  have  honors  not  so  vain. 
cc  Alas  !  "  he  said,  —  and  o'er  the  waves  his  eye 
Seems  to  seek  out  his  distant  place  of  birth,  • — 
"May  Virtue  soon  the  hemispheres  ally  ! 
All-glorious  days,  illuminate  the  earth  !  " 


PRELUDE.  177 

ODE    IV. 
PRELUDE. 

NOT  in  the  highway, 
Trod  by  the  vulgar, 
Muse,  let  us  wander  ! 
Take  me  where  flowing 
Murmurs  Permessus  ; 
Where  Aganippe 
Sparkles  celestial, 
Haunt  of  thy  sisters. 
There  on  thy  mountain, 
Lull'd  by  the  breezes, 
Gather  we  flowers 
Never  yet  woven, 
Never  in  chaplets 
Seen  by  the  starr'd  West. 
There  shall  the  spirits, 
Hovering  round  us, 
That  in  the  old  time. 
Under  thy  guidance, 
Chanted  enraptur'd, 
View  with  complacence 
Efforts  so  daring, 
While,  o'er  the  sweet  harp 
Touch'd  by  the  Teian 
Bard  as  he  warbled, 
Or  on  the  vary'd 


178  ODES. 


Chords  of  ALCJEUS, 
Glisten  my  fingers  ; 
Dulcetly  warbling 
Ivycrown'd  BACCHUS, 
BACCHUS  and  VENUS  ; 
Rose-wreath 'd  my  tresses, 
Flashing  my  eyeballs 
Passion  and  rapture, 
Rapture  inebriate  ; 
While  at  my  shoulder 
Love,  like  a  cherub, 
Folding  his  pinions 
Dy'd  in  the  rainbow, 
Nods  to  the  measure. 

*      *      *0) 


ODE    V. 

THOCGH  ABSENT  FROM  HIS  MISTRESS,  THE  POET  SEES  HER  STILL 
WITH  THE  EYES  OF  FANCY. 

I  HAVE  withdrawn  me,  SYBIL,  from  thy  sight  ; 
Yet  still  thy  image  floats  these  eyes  before  ; 

(i)  The  above  poem,  written  at  a  sitting,  here  terminated,  and 
when  a  long  time  afterwards  I  came  across  it,  and  I  would  resume 
it,  I  found  that  I  had  neglected  to  make  a  memorandum  of  the  de- 
sign as  it  was  to  have  been  completed  ;  and  my  memory  could  not 
supply  the  omission.  To  continue  it  I  have  not  now  time.  Consider- 
ing it  however  as  a  successful  application  of  an  ancient  measure  to 
English  poetry,  and  that  it  will  make  a  very  fair  introduction  to  the 
amatory  portion  of  the  odes,  I  have  inserted  it  accordingly. 


THE  VISION.  179 

Deck'd  in  the  very  garb  it  lately  wore, 
It  comes  before  me,  and  thus  doubly  bright. 
I  count  the  well-known  graces  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  all  my  pulses  tingle  with  delight. 

There  are  the  brows  my  lips  were  wont  to  press  ! 
The  glossy  hair  my  fingers  joy'd  to  twine  ! 
The  large  gray  eyes,  that  on  my  own  would  shine 
Till  the  soul  sicken'd  with  excess  of  bliss  ! 
The  burning  cheek,  so  often  touch'd  to  mine, 
And  the  full  lip  that  quiver'd  to  my  kiss  ! 

Thy  throat,  thy  swelling  breasts  !     I  see  thee  all ! 

Thou  smilest  ;  and  I  cannot  bid  thee  hence. 

Again  I  list,  with  ecstasy  intense, 

Thy  voice  whose  whisper 'd  accents  wont  to  fall 

Sweeter  than  music  on  my  raptur'd  sense. 

I  name  thee,  and  thou  comest  to  my  call. 

Come  to  my  arms,  thou  beauteous  vision  !  come  ! 
Come,  since  thou  wilt,  and  let  my  brain  have  rest. 
O,  ease  thy  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 
And  nestle  in  the  heart  that  is  thy  home  ! 
Sigh  not,  my  SYBIL  !  while  we  are  thus  blest, 
Think'st  thou  thy  poet  ever  more  will  roam  ? 

No  !  by  those  lips  whose  inner  edge  I  press  ; 
By  the  sweet  breath  that  mixes  now  with  mine  ; 
By  those  twin  stars  whose  rays  upon  me  shine, 
And  the  white  lids  whose  fringes  tempt  my  kiss  ; 
By  that  soft  voice,  that  step  I  deem  divine, 
And  all  that  makes  my  peril  and  my  bliss  ! 


180  ODES. 

Ah  me  !  I  have  withdrawn  me  from  thy  sight  ; 
But  still  thy  image  floats  these  eyes  before. 
Avails  it  not  I  see  thy  charms  no  more, 
For  Fancy  brings  them  to  the  mind  as  bright. 
I  come,  enchantress  !  fling  thy  fetters  o'er 
My  soul  again,  and  give  back  my  delight  ! 


ODE    VI. 
THE    WISH. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  little  bird, 
With  wings  to  wander  at  my  will  ! 
I  'd  wend  my  way,  unseen,  unheard, 
And  light  upon  thy  window-sill. 
Then  should  I  be  perhaps  preferr'd 
To  be  thy  pet,  and  love  thee  still. 

Then  wouldst  thou  take  me  in  thy  hand, 
And  smooth  the  plumage  of  my  crest, 
And  speak  to  me  with  accents  bland, 
And  fold  me  gently  to  thy  breast  ; 
And  not  the  happiest  in  the  land, 
Of  happy  men,  would  be  so  blest. 

And  thou  perhaps  wouldst  praise  my  song, 
Unknowing  it  was  love  I  sung, 
And  I  the  amorous  lay  prolong, 
To  be  commended  of  thy  tongue, 
Nor  heed  the  transport  of  the  throng 
That,  far  less  happy,  round  thee  hung. 


THE  ROSES.  181 

And  then,  I  know,  thy  lips  would  press 

Their  joy  on  my  half-open  bill, 

And  smile  to  mark  my  voice  grow  less, 

My  dim  eye  close,  and  body  thrill, 

And  give  me  quick  a  new  caress, 

And  cry,  "  There,  wanton,  take  thy  fill  !  " 

And  then,  —  but  then,  O  shouldst  thou  take 
And  hide  me  in  that  breast  of  snow, 
My  little  heart,  o'erfill'd,  would  break, 
With  ecstasy  thou  couldst  not  know. 
Ah  !  let  me  first  the  thought  forsake  ! 
I  would  not  be  thy  bird  ;  no,  no  ! 


ODE    VII. 

THK  POET  ADDRESSES  THE  LIPS  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

DELICATE,  half-open'd  roses, 

Which  discloses 

Loveliest  mouth  the  gods  have  given, 
Why  so  coyly  be  denying 

When  I  'm  dying 
To  inhale  your  sweets  of  Heaven  ? 

Could  my  kisses  of  desire, 
By  their  fire, 
16 


182  ODES. 

Wither  up  your  virgin  beauty  ? 
Goods  we  have  enough  for  sparing 

To  be  sharing 
Is  it  not  a  solemn  duty  ? 

Lips  my  lady  makes  so  smiling 

For  beguiling, 

Where  the  profit  to  deceive  me  ? 
If  the  smile  that  round  you  glances 

So  entrances, 
Kisses  would  do  more,  believe  me. 

Think,  your  bloom  and  shape  together 

Soon  must  wither. 
Odor  gone,  and  dry  the  flower, 
Who  the  rivell'd  leaves  will  gather  ? 

Let  us  rather 
Taste  their  sweets  the  present  hour. 

Roses,  is  it  ye  replying  ? 

"  Better  dying, 

Than  be  gather'd  and  rejected  ! 
Were  our  sweets  upon  you  lavish'd, 

Others  ravish'd 
Soon  would  be,  and  more  expected. 

"  She,  who  yields  her  lover  kisses, 

Greater  blisses 

But  prepares  for  his  enjoying  ; 
To  the  old,  his  passion  feeding, 

New  succeeding  ; 
None  enough  where  all  are  cloying." 


REGRET.  183 

Roses,  true.     No  more  I  press  me 

To  possess  ye,  — 

Better  pleas'd  your  sweets  to  treasure 
Where  they  grow,  than,  rudely  hasting 

To  be  tasting, 
Bruise  your  stem  for  selfish  pleasure. 

Delicate,  half-open'd  roses, 

Which  discloses 

Loveliest  mouth  the  gods  have  given, 
Still  your  virgin  newness  cherish, 

Though  I  perish, 
Panting  for  your  sweets  of  Heaven  ! 


ODE    VIII. 
REGRET. 

O  LOVELIEST  of  bowers  ! 

The  stream  beside  thee  flowing, 

The  many-scented  flowers 

About  thy  trellis  growing, 

Bring  back,  with  how  much  sadness 

My  hours  of  vanish'd  gladness. 

Was  't  not  when  in  the  heaven 
Day's  parting  fires  were  glowing, 
And  cattle,  homeward  driven, 
Along  the  fields  were  lowing, 


184  ODES. 


When  sombre  grew  the  mountain. 
And  light  forsook  the  fountain, 

Upon  thy  seat  I  plac'd  me, 
Thy  leafy  shadows  round  me, 
And  ELLEN'S  beauty  grac'd  thee  ; 
To  whom  with  vows  I  bound  me, 
To  love,  and  love  her  ever, 
While  flow'd  that  gentle  river  ? 

She  listen'd  to  my  story, 
Believ'd  the  love  I  taught  her, 
Till  shone  in  all  her  glory 
The  moon  upon  the  water, 
And  for  the  hues  of  even 
There  glow'd  a  brighter  heaven. 

Then  long  we  seem'd  attending 
The  crickets'  lazy  chorus, 
(Its  murmurs  softly  blending 
The  rivulet  before  us, 
The  polish'd  pebbles  laving,) 
Nor  less  the  willows  waving. 

Her  hand  my  own  encloses, 

The  while  my  arms  enfold  her, 

And  timidly  reposes 

Her  head  upon  my  shoulder, 

The  dark  hair  o'er  it  streaming, 

Through  which  her  eyes  were  gleaming. 

But  tears  rain'd  down  in  sorrow, 
Her  breast  heav'd  with  emotion, 


REGRET.  185 

For  I  should  be,  the  morrow, 
Afloat  upon  the  ocean, 
And  anxious  thoughts  beset  her, 
Through  fear  I  should  forget  her. 

But  love  soon  dry'd  the  shower, 
Restor'd  the  peace  between  us. 
We  left  the  shady  bower 
That  never  more  should  screen  us  ; 
And  tow'rd  her  father's  dwelling 
I  took  my  way  with  ELLEN. 

Then  to  my  breast  I  drew  her, 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  of  Heaven, 
With  kisses  —  never  truer, 
More  fond  by  man  were  given  : 
They  were  the  first,  and  only  ; 
For  I,  —  I  now  am  lonely. 

And  must  the  truest  pleasure 
Be  always  thus  the  briefest  ? 
Each  good  we  fain  would  treasure 
Soon  waste  ;  most  soon  the  chiefest  ? 
Where,  ELLEN,  are  thy  graces  ? 
Thy  worth  ?     I  see  their  places. 

O  loveliest  of  bowers  ! 
The  stream  beside  thee  flowing, 
The  many-scented  flowers 
About  thy  trellis  growing, 
Bring  back,  with  too  much  sadness  ! 
My  hours  of  vanish'd  gladness. 
16* 


186  ODES. 


ODE    IX. 
LA  CONSOLAZIONE. 

Su  la  riva  giacendo 
D'  un  vago  fiumicello, 
Che,  limpido  correndo 
Per  mezzo  un  praticello 
Di  be'  fioretti  ornato, 
Faceva  un  canto  grato, 

Pensava  de'  miei  mali, 
Dal  suon  del  rio  attristato. 
Di  Memoria  sull'  ali 
Le  inie  lutte  col  Fato 
Passaro  in  mente,  e  a  rea 
Sorte  quest'  io  dicea  : 

"  Perche  mia  culla  ornaro 
Le  dolci  Nove  a  fiori, 
E  in  bocca  mi  baciaro 
Gli  scherzevoli  Amori, 
Facendomi  assonnare 
Con  lor  soave  aliare  ? 

"  Ecco  che  senza  frutto 
E  il  mio  lungo  labore, 
Ed  ho  trovato  lutto, 
Lasso  !  tutto  mio  amore  ; 


LA  CONSOLAZIONE.  187 

K.  non  ancor  fugate 
Son  le  vision!  amate. 

"  Fatto  com'  altri  spirti, 
Non  sarei  si  desioso 
Del  lauro,  n.'  tra  i  mirti 
Vaneggierei  amoroso  ; 
Spinto  da  due  passioni, 
Freno  alia  volta  e  sproni. 

"  Dispietata  Fortuna  ! 
Ecco  del  tuo  partito : 
All'  anima  comuna 
Pasto  senz'  appetito, 
AH'  altre  dai  ad  avere 
Disio,  non  il  godere." 

A  pena  i'  detto  avea, 
Ch'  un  piccolin  fringuello, 
Che  un  vermicel  tenea, 
In  sur  un  ramicello 
D'  un  albero  vicino, 
Nel  becco  suo  piccino, 

Fu  subito  ferito 
Da  un  moscardo  rapace. 
Levaselo  1'  ardito 
Nell'  artiglio  tenace, 
Dispiega  1'  ali,  e  via 
Ei  su  per  1'  aer  sen  gia  ; 


188  ODES. 


Q,uando  ecco  che  si  cala 
Una  aquila  dell'  alto. 
Ella,  movendo  T  ala 
Con  larghe  ruote,  assalto 
Fa  incontra  e,  senza  pugna, 
II  rapitore  adugna. 

Lascia  cadere  in  giuso 
La  preda  inorta  il  fello  ; 
Ed  a  vicenda  suso 
Poggia  ver  ciel  lo  snello 
Re  d'  augei,  col  guadagno 
Del  artiglio  grifagno. 

Mentr'  io  miro  la  possa 
E  prestezza  di  sue  ale, 
Rimbomba  1'  aria,  e,  scossa 
Ed  impiagata  male, 
Delia  sommita  altera 
Cade  la  aquila  fera. 

"  Ed  egli  chi  ha  tirata 
La  canna,  dond'  e  uscito 
Q,uel  suono  ed  e  mandata 
La  palla,  onde  ferito 
E  il  volator  si  forte, 
Anch'  ei  si  dee  alia  Morte. 

"  Cotale  e  la  Natura. 
Chi  sorge  a  penne  stese 
Impara  di  sua  altura, 


LA  CONSOLAZIONE.  189 

Alle  non  altrui  spese, 
Non  ha  da  ascender  solo 
Chi  sen  va  in  aria  a  volo. 

"  Che  non  ?  pero,  calcato, 
Chi  striscia  per  la  sabbia 
Un  non  men  duro  fato, 
Ed  un  piu  vil,  par  ch'  abbia, 
Se  non  che  faccia,  guasto, 
A  altra  creatura  pasto. 

"  Giacche  il  forte  si  sotto 
Caccia  1'  umile  e  '1  frale, 
Da  essere  ei  stesso  rotto 
Di  alcun  altro  cotale, 
Che  al  fin  getta  il  Destino 
A  terra  a  capo  chino  ; 

"  Ne  virtu,  ne  innocenza, 
Ne  fe,  ne  veritade, 
Quaggiu  con  frodolenza, 
Malizia,  e  falsitade 
Non  si  possono,  e  niente 
In  terra  e  permanente  ; 

"  Ingiusto  pur  son  io, 
Non  che  alia  sorte  ingrato, 
Ch'  io  vo  piangendo  il  mio 
Tristo  e  solingo  stato, 
Perche  mi  fugge  Onore, 
E  seguitami  Amore. 


190  ODES. 


"  S'  io  soffrisco  pel  vero, 
La  Verita  mi  paga. 
Benche  in  abito  nero 
Gia  sia  Fortuna,  e  vaga, 
Vivra,  quando  sia  stanca, 
Con  me,  ed  in  veste  bianca.' 

Spariscon,  questo  detto, 
Le  nubi  di  mio  core. 
Non  piu  del  ruscelletto 
II  suon  m'  attrista  ;   e  1'  ore 
Rallegrano  e  gli  augei 
I  lassi  spirti  miei. 


X. 

CANZONET. 

EYES,  that  are  my  adoration, 
Eyes  I  love  to  desperation, — 
Since,  when  madden'd  by  your  glances 
Every  pulse  within  me  dances, 
Much,  O  very  much  I  fear  me, 
I  would  give  my  soul's  salvation 
To  retain  ye  ever  near  me,  — 
'Neath  what  cloud  of  coyness  hiding, 
Stars  whose  light  my  spirit  misses, 


CANZONET.  191 

Is  your  beauty  now  abiding  ? 

O,  by  all  the  burning  kisses 

On  your  rosy  lids  I  've  given, 

Eyes  whose  blue  is  that  of  heaven, 

Let  your  splendor  once  more  reach  me  ! 

Darling  eyes,  I  do  beseech  ye  ; 

Though,  when  madden'd  by  your  glances 

Every  pulse  within  me  dances, 

Much,  ah,  very  much  I  fear  me, 

I  would  give  my  soul's  salvation 

To  retain  ye  ever  near  me, 

Eyes  that  are  my  adoration, 

Eyes  I  love  to  desperation  ! 


XI. 
CANZONET. 

O  THAT  I  might  do  over,  over, 

All  I  have  done  since  first  I  met  thee  ! 

Then  should  I  soon  my  peace  recover, 

My  study  only  to  forget  thee, 

If  so  I  might  do  over,  over, 

All  I  have  done  since  first  I  met  thee. 

That  voice,  unheard,  no  longer  thrilling, 

That  step,  unseen,  no  more  delighting, 

The  hand  I  press'd,  when  thou  wert  willing, 

My  raptur'd  pulse  no  more  exciting, 


192  ODES. 

Those  eyes  .  .  .     Alas  !  I  but  discover 
The  self-same  perils  still  beset  me  ! 
I  should,  I  should,  do  over,  over, 
All  I  have  done  since  first  I  met  thee  ! 


EPISTLES 


PREFACE. 


THE  Epistle  to  Juvenal  is  written  in  hexameter.  The  following 
remarks  were  intended  as  a  note  to  one  of  the  lines ;  but,  on  ac- 
count of  their  length,  they  are  inserted  here. 

Many  of  the  ancient  measures,  however  pedants  have  affected  to 
deride  them  when  applied  to  modern  poetry,  are  perfectly  suscep- 
tible of  adaptation  to  our  language,  and  felicitously  so,  when  used 
with  judgment,  and  by  a  correct  ear.  Of  these  I  do  not  consider 
the  Hexameter  to  be  one.  In  every  language,  I  believe,  of  mod- 
ern EUROPE  attempts  have  been  made  to  imitate  it;  but  with  small 
success.  In  English,  it  was  sought  to  be  introduced  so  long  ago 
as  the  time  of  Sir  PHILIP  SIDNEY.  Hence  POPE  has  said,  (Im.  of 
Hor.  B.  ii.  Ep.  1.): 

"  And  SIDNEY'S  verse  halts  ill  on  Roman  feet." 
My  own  objection  to  the  rythm  is  not  that  it  halts,  but  that  it 
gallops.  The  number  of  small  words  which,  from  the  genius  of 
modern  languages,  and  especially  of  the  English  and  French,  enter 
so  necessarily  into  composition,  and  which  in  English  receive  but 
rarely  any  stress  of  the  voice,  render  it  almost  impossible  to  make 
this  measure  in  our  language  otherwise  than  of  pure  dactyls ;  that  is, 
if  it  be  indeed  made,  not  as  Mr.  SOUTHEY'S  hexameters,  which  halt 
with  SIDNEY'S,  and  are  not  capable  of  scansion,  but  correctly  and 
musically.  Of  this  I  was  aware  before  I  tried  the  measure  in  the 
present  instance,  having  attempted  it  for  a  metaphrase  of  the  sixth 
JEneid,  and  found,  that  while  the  translation  could  thus  be  given 
literally,  line  for  line,  the  verse  had  a  wearisome  monotony,  such 


196  PREFACE 

as  in  fact  would  prevail  in  Latin  verse,  did  all  the  hexameters  can- 
ter, like  the  famous 

Quadrupeddnte  putrim  sonitii  quatit  ungula  cdmpum, 
or  in  Greek,  if  all  were  made  to  bound,  like 

Autis  epeita  peduncle  kulindeto  laas  anaides. 

Thus  the  Epistle  to  Juvenal  will  be  found,  not  to  halt  indeed,  but 
to  move  with  a  gait  so  little  varied,  that  the  poem,  were  it  longer 
than  it  is,  would  inevitably  put  the  reader  to  sleep.  Why,  having 
known  beforehand  from  experiment  this  perilous  monotony,  I 
should  have  persisted  in  using  the  measure,  will  appear  when  the 
reader  shall  have  come  to  the  poem  and  its  fellow  epistles.  He  will 
find  that  the  conceit,  which  prompted  such  a  choice  of  metre,  is 
though  sportive,  not  improper  ;  while  I  flatter  myself  that  the  mat- 
ter, as  well  as  the  brevity  of  the  poem,  will  ensure  him  from 
nodding. 

In  the  Epistle  occurs  this  line : 
Whirl  my  brisk  thoughts  o'er  the  leaf,  on  the  wheels  of  thy  spondees 

and  dactyls. 

In  the  word  spondee,  if  we  have  regard  merely  to  the  vowel  sounds, 
the  last  syllable  is  as  evidently  long  in  English,  as  the  first  is  short. 
Both  are  long  in  Latin.  In  dactyl,  the  first  syllable,  according  to 
the  sound  of  the  vowel,  is  short,  while  it  is  long  in  Latin ;  the 
last  syllable  is  short,  both  in  Latin  and  in  English.  Yet  where 
does  the  stress  of  the  voice  fall  in  these  words,  however  placed  in 
English?  Evidently  on  the  first  syllable  of  each;  and  consequently 
the  other  is  heard  with  less  force  and  is  articulated  with  a  quicker 
breathing ;  in  a  word,  the  latter  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  short 
from  its  position,  and  the  former  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  long 
by  the  same  position.  Therefore  in  the  verse  just  quoted,  if  the 
words  .  .  spdndees  and  \  ddctyls,  instead  of  having  the  stress  on  the 
syllables  thus  indicated  by  a  sharp  accent,  were  to  be  printed  thus, 
—  .  .  spondees  and  |  dactyls,  —  we  should  have  marked  perfectly 
the  musical  times  of  the  feet,  which  is  all  that  is  required,  —  and, 
be  it  observed,  all  that  is  understood,  in  Greek  or  Latin,  even  by 
the  best  prosodians.  To  assert  that  ee  cannot  represent  a  short 
syllable,  in  other  words,  that  it  is  not  actually  abbreviated  by  the 
force  of  the  preceding  accent,  simply  because  it  has,  when  standing 
by  itself,  the  sound  of  the  diphthong,  or  what  is  known  as  long  e,  is 


TO  THE  EPISTLES.  197 

quite  as  absurd  as  it  would  be  to  scan  the  verse  by  classic  rules,  and 
say,  the  o  is  long  by  its  position  before  two  consonants,  etc.,  etc. 
And  yet,  both  these  absurdities  have  actually  been  committed 
through  pedantry  or  through  malice,  and  most  probably  in  either 
case  ignorantly  and  with  a  want  of  ear,  by  those  who  have  affected 
to  ridicule  similar  attempts  by  others,  whether  made,  as  now,  in 
sport,  or,  as  in  Ode  IV.,  with  seriousness,  to  nationalize  any  of  the 
poetic  metres  of  the  ancients.  The  reader  will  easily  perceive,  that 
by  making  spondees  the  last  word,  I  could  have  met  the  chief  ob- 
jection of  these  cavillers  ;  but  I  have  consulted  common  sense  and 
a  tolerable  ear,  and  having  from  my  outset  as  an  author  set  my 
face  against  all  cant  and  against  all  unreasonable  dictation,  I  do  not 
care  to  succumb  to  them  even  in  this  trifle ;  for  any  such  submis- 
sion is  a  dereliction  of  principle. 

Let  me  add,  without  being  thought  to  dictate  in  my  turn,  that 
no  one  who  has  gone  through  the  first  elements  of  music,  or  whom 
nature  has  taught  to  feel  a  lively  pleasure  in  what  is  called  in 
music  time,  when  duly  observed,  even  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  black- 
smith's hammer,  (the  thesis  and  arsis  of  prosodians,)  and  without 
which  he  may  despair  of  ever  writing  verse,  that  no  one,  so  in- 
structed or  so  constituted,  will  fail  to  perceive  the  melody  of  this 
measure  by  beating  the  time  mentally,  according  to  the  feet,  or  bars, 
thus: 

(i)Lord  of  the  |  iron  |  harp  !  ||  thou  j  master  of  |  diction  sa|tiric, 
Who,  with  the  |  scourge  of  |  song,  ||  lash'd  |  vices  in  )  monarch  and 

|  people, 
And,  to  the  )  scoff  of  the  |  age,  j|  and  the  |  scorn  of  all  |  ages  suc- 

|  ceeding, 
Bar'd  the  rank  |  ulcers  of  |  sin  |.|  in  the  \  loins  of  the  |  Mistress  of 

|  Nations  !  etc. 

Here  of  the  second  of  these  verses  I  would  observe,  that  the  same 
license  (if  such  may  be  called  what  is  in  fact  a  result  of  rythmic 
harmony,  or  the  dictate  simply  of  common  sense,)  that  the  same 

(1)  The  double  mark,  the  mere  English  reader  will  permit  me  to  remind  him, 
denotes  what  is  called  the  ccesural  pause,  the  metrical  rest  or  repose,  which, 
in  all  languages,  occurs  somewhere  in  all  verses  of  any  length,  and  is  where 
the  voice  rests  a  brief  instant ;  a  practice  in  reading  essential  to  harmony,  but 
which  is  most  frequently  neglected. 
17* 


198  PREFACE 

liberty  which,  as  is  known  to  prosodians,  prevails  in  ancient  verse, 
of  making  on  certain  occasions  a  short  syllable  long  by  the  mere 
stress  of  the  voice  (i),  obtains  likewise  in  our  own.  But  in  the 
present  case  the  mere  force  with  which  the  word  scourge  is  neces- 
sarily uttered  requires  so  great  a  time,  that  though  the  particle  of, 
which  immediately  follows,  receives  no  accent  whatever,  yet 
scourge  of  stands  actually  and  correctly  for  a  spondee.  That  I  have 
not  been  compelled  to  this  apparent  license  by  the  demands  of  my 
verse,  it  is  advisable  that  I  should  show  the  reader,  by  letting  him 
see  that  it  might  have  been  written, 

Who,  with  the  |  scourges  of  |  eong,  etc., 
or,  Who,  with  the  |  scourge  of  thy  |  song,  etc. 

In  the  hexameter  which  in  the  body  of  the  Epistle  is  cited  from 
Juvenal, 

"  Speluncis.     Adeo  senuerunt  Jupiter  et  Mars," 

et,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  is  long ;  it  is  the  arsis,  the  movi- 
mento  in  battere  or  motion  of  the  hand  dovmward,  (2)  of  the  conclud- 
ing spondee,  or  bar.  How  is  this  produced?  We  say,  by  position  ; 
yet  it  is  the  metre  which  compels  us  to  let  the  stress  of  the  voice 
fall  upon  this  simple  et.  It  is  an  accented,  or  rather  an  enforced 
note.  (3)  Now,  as  we  have  intimated  above,  the  stress  alone  would 
be  sufficient  under  certain  circumstances  to  lengthen  the  time  of 
the  particle,  although  the  next  word  began  with  a  vowel.  This 
being  the  case,  the  emphatic  emission  of  the  voice  being  allowed 
to  lengthen  a  syllable,  and  a  change  in  time  being  invariably  at- 
tended by  a  corresponding  change  in  the  metrical  accentuation, 
how  does  quantity  differ  from  accent?  In  English  we  should  say, 
with  no  greater  violation  of  propriety  than  the  Roman  poet  is 
guilty  of  in  Latin,  Jupiter  and  Mars;  and,  though  indeed  we 
should  plead  the  metre,  and  not  literal  position,  for  the  rythmic 

(1)  In  like  manner,  in  music,  the  unaccented  part  of  a  measure  is  often  made 
emphatic. 

(2)  Dr.  CALLCOTT  uses  the  term  arsis  for  the  weak  part  of  a  measure,  ap- 
plying thesis  to  the  depression  of  the  hand.    But  surely  this  is  following  the 
letter  and  not  the  sense  of  words. 

(3)  And  without  this  musical  accentuation  or  emphasis,  though  et  Mars 
would  be  still  a  spondee,  the  verse  might  just  as  well  terminate  by  an  iambus. 
In  fact,  no  hexameter  verse,  that  ever  was  written,  can  be  verse,  except  the 
penultimate  syllable  have  the  arsis,  or  musical  accentuation. 


TO  THE  EPISTLES.  199 

length  of  the  syllable,  yet  the  time  of  and  would  still  be  long,  the 
change  of  accent  producing  unavoidably  a  change  of  quantity. 
And  why  ?  Because  accent  and  quantity  are,  in  metrical  compo- 
sition, one  and  the  same  thing.  What  delicious  verse  would 
HOMER'S  be,  if  read  according  to  the  printed  or  grammatical  ac- 
cents !  But  we  give  ARISTOPHANES  the  BYZANTINE  to  the  devil, 
and  are  guided  by  the  quantity,  and,  behold,  the  accentuation 
thence  arising  makes  us  music.  Latin  verse,  though  composed  by 
quantity,  is  invariably  read  according  to  accent,  or  to  accent  and 
quantity,  never  in  accordance  with  quantity  alone  (except  by  those 
whose  learning  has  destroyed  their  ear).  Who  for  example,  in  this 
line  of  HORACE'S, 

"  Pindarum  quisquis  studet  femulari," 

would  think  of  reading,  according  to  quantity,  Peindaroom  queis- 
queis,  or,  with  the  better  and  Italian  sound,  Peendaroom  quees- 
quees.  (i)  The  open  vowels  are  made  close,  and  we  read  Pindarum 
quisquis.  How  then  does  it  happen  that  the  music  of  the  measure 
is  not  lost?  Because,  the  time  we  make  the  same,  by  dwelling 
upon  the  syllables  accented  : 

Pindarum  quisquis  \  \  studet  te'muldri. 

What  then  do  we  lose  in  poetry  by  our  ignorance  of  ancient  pro- 
nunciation ?  Absolutely  nothing,  as  far  as  rythm  is  concerned. 
The  mere  position  of  the  vowel  sound  before  two  consonants  in 
quisquis  necessarily  makes  the  time  long,  whether  you  say  quis,  as 
the  ENGLISH,  or  quees  with  the  ITALIANS  ;  and  so  of  the  first  and 
last  syllables  of  Pindarum :  and  it  could  have  been  nothing  more  in 
Latin.  Let  the  reader  drop  one  of  the  consonants,  and  he  will  find 
that  Pidarum,  pronounce  the  i  open  or  close,  cannot  occupy  the 
time  of  Pindarum,  unless  indeed  he  dwell  upon  the  vowel,  which 
is  in  fact  to  elongate  it,  as  we  have  already  said.  Does  anybody 
suppose  that  the  e  of  et,  in  the  verse  from  Juvenal,  was  pronounced 
in  any  other  manner  by  the  ROMANS,  or  by  the  poet  himself,  than  it 

(i)  Though  in  the  time  of  HORACE,  the  politer  ROMANS  made  the  sound  of 
the  final  s  invariable,  which  an  age  or  two  before  had  been  suppressed  or  pro- 
nounced at  pleasure,  I  never  will  blaspheme  that  sweet  lyric  by  believing  that 
it  should  be  heard  in  the  above  line,  but  I  must  think  he  would  have  read  the 
metre  thus  : 

Pindarum  quisquf  studet  cemulari. 


200  PREFACE 

would  have  been  in  prose?  Yet  it  is  long !  long  by  its  position. 
It  is  therefore  probable,  however  some  prosodians  may  dispute  it, 
that  little  if  any  real  difference  existed  between  ancient  quantity 
and  modern  accent,  as  regards  rythmical  construction,  (i)  This 
opinion  will  be  found  further  illustrated  in  the  Parodies  of  Horace. 
I  find  that  by  changing  my  note  into  a  preface,  I  have  insensibly 
carried  it  beyond  the  bounds  intended  ;  yet  I  cannot  leave  this  sub- 
ject without  going  back  to  Epistle  II.,  and  making  a  few  remarks 
upon  the  heroic  measure  in  English. 

We  too  have  our  quantity,  or  something  very  like  it  in  English 
verse,  which  is  subject  to  similar  laws,  and  is  varied  by  similar  li- 
censes, with  that  of  the  ancients.  An  heroic  verse  we  say  con- 
sists of  five  iambuses  ;  thus  : 

"  Awa'ke  \  m^  St."'  |  John  !  ||  lea've  |  all  me'ajner  thl'ngs." 
Now,  the  same  number  of  iambuses  may  be  counted  in  an  heroic 
verse,  and  yet  the  verse  be  not  poetical.    Its  rythm  may  be  defec- 
tive; thus: 

My  St.''  |  John,  wa'ke !  \\  and  lea've  \  all  me'a\ner  thl'ngs. 
Does  the  reader  see  how  the  difference  is  produced  ?  It  is  partly 
by  the  collocation  of  the  words,  partly  by  that  of  the  ccesura,  or 
middle  rest  of  the  voice,  which  is  made  to  fall  after  the  fourth  half- 
foot,  instead  of  after  the  fifth,  which  in  the  heroic  measure  is  the 
exact  middle  of  the  verse.  This  latter  is  the  most  musical  of  all 
the  pauses:  (and  therefore  the  FRENCH,  in  their  longest  measure, 
have,  to  the  complete  sacrifice  of  variety,  made  it  invariable.) 

Though  I  have  not  now  the  time  to  pursue  this  subject  at  the 
length  I  should  delight  to  do,  yet  let  me  instance  some  verses  from 
the  second  Epistle.  Thus  it  opens  : 

How  surely,  ||  in  this  life's  still-changing  state, 
The  brightest  names  ||  must  share  the  common  fate, 
Doom'd  in  a  day,  ||  whose  splendors  soon  are  past, 
To  rise,  ||  to  culminate,  ||  and  set  at  last,  etc. 

(i)  When  T  say  natu,  the  voice  is  elevated,  and  there  is  arsis  in  tu ;  when 
however  ra,  the  voice  is  depressed,  and  there  is  thesis.  [Natura  as  our  word 
insurer.]  —  PRISCIAN  on  accents,  as  cited  by  HERMANN,  De  Metr.  Poet.  Grose, 
et  Rom.  i.  5. 


TO  THE  EPISTLES.  201 

It  will  be  perceived  that  the  time  of  the  first  is  too  quick,  and  is 
inexact.  Let  us  measure  it : 

How  sure  |  ly  in  |  this  life's  |  still  chan  |  ging  state. 
The  verse  we  see  is  defective ;  its  second  foot  is  a  pyrrhic.  To 
give  the  verse  its  due  quantity,  the  ccesura  would  have  to  fall  after 
in.  The  next  verse  is  correct  in  measure  ;  but  the  pause  is  un- 
graceful. The  third  and  fourth  are  both  musical.  Now,  that  the 
inferiority  in  the  second  verse  is  not  owing  solely  to  the  caesura's 
falling  after  the  fourth  syllable  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  third 
is  in  this  respect  its  very  counterpart.  Let  us  therefore  test  the 
composition  of  this  latter  and  see  where  the  difference  lies : 

Doom'd  in  |  &  day  |  whose  splen  |  dors  soon  |  are  past. 
It  will  be  seen  that  a  trochee  occupies  the  first  place.  We  thus 
discover,  that  when  the  pause  is  after  the  second  foot,  the  verse  is 
better  if  commenced  with  an  accented  syllable.  The  fourth  verse 
is  the  best  of  all  :  it  has  the  grace  of  an  additional  caesura,  which 
here  falls  after  the  first  foot.  And,  by  the  by,  culminate  receives  a 
secondary  accent  upon  its  final  syllable,  by  reason  of  the  repose  : 

To  rise  |  to  cul  |  minate  ||  and  set  |  at  last. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  we  really  have  quantity  in  our  measures, 
and  that  these  are  subject,  as  I  have  said,  to  similar  rules,  and  are 
varied  by  similar  licenses  with  the  measures  of  the  ancients. 

It  is  the  due  regard  to  these  particulars  of  rythm,  and  especial- 
ly the  due  adjustment  of  the  caesural  pause,  which  form  the  ex- 
cellence of  POPE'S  measure  ;  and  it  is  to  the  neglect  or  ignorance 
of  these  several  points,  that  we  are  to  ascribe  the  fault  of  most 
others  who  have  attempted  it.  The  caesura  is  the  stumbling  block 
of  the  heroic  verse ;  and  therefore  poets  have  abandoned  the  coup- 
let of  POPE  and  DRYDEN,  and  run  their  verses  into  one  another,  as 
we  see  in  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  Mr.  MOORE.  This  practice,  which 
the  FRENCH  call  enjambement,  destroys  the  music  of  the  heroic 
measure,  though  it  confers  an  infinitely  greater  ease  in  composi- 
tion, (i) 

(1)  The  reader  will  find  that  I  have  exemplified  this  error  in  a  considerable 
part  of  the  continuation  of  the  Vision,  appended  to  this  volume.  It  was 
owing  to  the  nature  of  the  subject.  In  that  particular  instance  I  should  have 
had  to  sacrifice  a  higher  merit  than  versification.  I  therefore  abandoned  it ; 


202  PREFACE  TO  THE  EPISTLES. 

Of  the  Epistle  to  Satan  I  have  only  to  say,  that  it  was  com- 
menced in  jest,  but  continued  in  earnest.  I  had  thought  merely  to 
trifle  ;  but  the  peril  of  my  country,  now  threatened  indirectly  by  a 
blow  at  one  of  the  institutions  of  one  of  the  States,  as  well  as 
directly  by  other  acts  of  wantonness  or  folly  in  her  servants,  has 
made  me,  in  one  or  two  places  of  the  poem,  severe,  if  not  serious. 
I  conjure  every  lover  of  his  country,  every  one  who  would  wish 
his  children  and  his  children's  children  to  live  with  the  same  se- 
curity, enjoying  the  same  liberty,  under  the  same  laws  that  he  him- 
self does,  I  conjure  him  with  my  whole  heart,  to  read  it  carefully 
both  text  and  comment.  But  if  he  must  neglect  one  or  other, 
let  it  be  the  text. 

but  not  without  a  regret  that  is  in  no  wise  yet  abated.  —  I  must  add,  that  the 
occasional  running  of  one  verse  into  another  is  a  positive  grace.  It  is  only  the 
uniformity  of  the  practice,  or  its  being  carried  through  too  many  consecutive 
lines  that  is  displeasing.  Further,  I  have  no  reference  to  blank  verse. 


EPISTLES. 


I. 

TO   MILTON. 

FROM  this  small  planet,  whose  effulgent  round 

Great  SATAN  saw,  what  time,  'twixt  Chaos'  reign 

And  the  far-shooting  light  of  HEAVEN'S  walls, 

He  hung,  suspended  on  his  sail-broad  vans, 

Over  the  abysm  of  nothing,  ere  yet,  lit 

Upon  the  backside  of  the  confus'd  world, 

He  trod  the  Paradise  uncouth  of  Fools,  — 

Saw  glimmering,  fasten'd  by  a  golden  chain 

To  the  celestial  vault ;  from  this  dull  lamp, 

Upon  whose  rim  I  with  some  millions  more 

Find  breathing-space,  and  light,  and  heat,  —  to  thee, 

Who  haply  long  have  pass'd  the  sea  of  pearl, 

(But  whether  wafted  in  crystallin  barge 

By  seraphs  niann'd,  or  whirl'd  along  the  flood 

In  the  light  chariot  of  the  fiery  steeds, 

Is  to  thyself  best  known,)  I  humbly  write, 

Mov'd  to  the  effort  by  an  honest  zeal, 

With  veneration  mix'd,  and  love  sincere. 


204  EPISTLE 

Yet  with  no  shade  of  awe  do  I  approach, 
As  he  of  Rydal-Mount,  who,  with  ostent 
Of  fear  and  genuflexion  of  the  mind, 
Works  profanation  to  thy  ensky'd  muse, 
Aiming,  with  wildfire  made  for  children's  sport, 
To  counterfeit  thy  thunder  ;(i)  not  with  awe  ; 

(i)  "  Awe-stricken  as  I  am  by  contemplating  the  operations  of  the 
mind  of  this  truly  divine  Poet,  I  scarcely  dare  venture  to  add,  that 
'  An  Address  to  an  Infant '  exhibits  something  of  this  communion 
and  interchange,"  etc.  WORDSWORTH'S  Preface.  (See  Vis.  of  Ru- 
beta,  p.  392.) 

Yet  this  very  man,  who  professes  to  be  awed  by  contemplation 
of  the  labors  of  a  human  mind,  has  dared  to  say  : 

"  Jehovah  —  with  his  thunder,  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  Angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones  — 
/  pass  THEM  unalarmed  ".' 

It  is  true,  this  is  merely  bombast ;  (and  Mr.  WORDSWORTH'S 
attempts  at  sublimity  will,  by  the  genuine  critic,  be  almost  always, 
if  not  always,  found  to  be  nothing  more  ;)  yet  is  it  not  the  less  pro- 
fane ;  "  For,"  as  I  have  elsewhere  remarked  upon  the  same  passage, 
"  For  fools  rush  in,  where  Angels  fear  to  tread." 

And,  in  citing  this  line  from  the  great  moral  poet,  be  it  observed 
that  the  very  words,  which  enable  me  to  correct  with  so  much 
emphasis  this  fustian  metre-monger,  are  the  brightest  refutation  of 
his  slanders  of  a  mighty  name ;  for  this  very  line,  whose  brilliant 
antithesis  is  matched  by  its  exquisite  truth,  is  by  the  maligned  POPE, 
by  POPE  the  versifier,  by  ALEXANDER  POPE,  that  factitious  bard 
whose  arts  have  poisoned  the  fountain-head  of  English  poetry. 
What  force  in  the  expression  !  how  every  word  is  made  to  bear  its 
exact  tint !  each  divided  and  distinct  from  the  other,  yet  all  united 
by  such  imperceptible  shades  that  the  coloring  is  but  one.  For 
fools  RUSH  IN,  where  Angels  fear  to  TREAD.  Is  not  the  whole  pic- 
ture painted  visibly  before  us,  on  the  canvass  which  never  fades, 
on  the  canvass  whose  fabric  no  moth  can  injure,  and  whose  bright- 
ness no  dust  can  obscure  ?  Yet  this  line  was  from  the  pen,  this 


TO  MILTON.  205 

For  such,  immortal  spirit,  to  none  I  yield 

That  is,  or  has  been,  of  the  earth  as  I. 

Respect,  and  admiration,  these,  thy  due 

Give  I  with  all  my  heart  ;  even  more  at  times 

Than  I  am  wont  to  pay  the  CHIAN  old, 

Who  sang  the  implacable  THESSALIAN'S  wrath 

And  the  lone  wanderer  of  the  rocky  isle. 

In  proof  whereof,  behold,  to  please  thy  sense, 

I  slight  the  unison  of  tuneful  rhyme, 

Albeit  I  judge  its  modulations  sweet 

Only  to  suit  thine  ends  thou  didst  reject, 

Lauding  the  strain,  that  left  from  fetters  free 

Thy  thoughts  sublime,  and  made  thy  labors  less,  — 

An  ease,  dear  MILTON,  ofttimes  sore  abus'd  ; 

As,  now  thou  art  where  all  is  harmony, 

And  hast  the  music  of  the  spheres  heard  play, 

Pursuing,  without  pause,  the  resonant  fugue 

Through  the  void  infinite  of  heavenly  space, 

Harmonious  thunder  !  thou  must  needs  confess. 

I  write  thy  measure,  and  assume  thy  tone. 
As  children,  on  a  summer  holyday, 
Launch  on  the  bosom  of  some  standing  pool 
Their  tiny  craft,  to  simulate  the  course 
Of  some  huge  ammiral.     They,  stooping  by, 
View  with  delight  the  fairy  frigate  glide 

picture  from  the  pencil,  of  a  youth  of  nineteen  !  this  brilliant  piece,, 
of  fancy  and  truth  combined,  found  its  place  in  the  cabinet  of  a 
didactic  poem  !  I  am  no  enthusiast,  especially  in  admiration,  yet  I 
say  without  scruple  that  this  single  verse  is  worth  any  consecutive 
thousand  of  those  of  the  author  of  the  Excursion;  and  I  confidently 
leave  the  question,  for  decision,  to  posterity. 
18 


206  EPISTLE 

Upright  and  steady  on  the  noiseless  stream, 
Or  urge  with  cautious  breath  the  loitering  keel  ; 
While,  on  the  open  main,  their  model,  tost 
From  side  to  side  betwixt  the  mountain  waves, 
Or  plunging  through  the  surge  her  roaring  stem, 
Masts,  cordage,  beams,  all  quivering  as  the  gale 
Weighs  on  the  lessen'd  canvass,  —  then  becalm'd, 
The  gather'd  sails  loose-flapping,  and  her  sides 
Lazily  heaving  to  the  ocean  swell, 
Bears  like  proportion,  in  her  varied  state 
And  motions,  to  the  mimic  vessel's  course, 
As  her  vast  hulk  does  to  its  scarce-seen  form. 
Even  so  my  bark,  upon  a  scantier  stream 
Manoeuvres,  with  the  trim  and  build  of  thine  ; 
Its  course  more  smooth  and  uniform,  as  needs 
For  so  diminutive  and  slight  a  mould  ; 
Its  service,  but  the  pastime  of  an  hour. 

Thus  much  for  compliment  ;  thus  much  for  gloss 
Upon  my  strain.     I  now  reclimb  the  steep 
Wheredown  I  slid  to  visit  earth  awhile, 
And  scale  again  the  golden  stairs  (i)  to  thee. 
Thou  art,  great  Father,  (let  me  call  thee  so,) 
Now  seated,  may  I  deem,  in  some  sweet  bower 
Of  Heaven's  sure  paradise,  its  roof  o'erhung 
With  arching  amaranth,  and  the  tufted  sod 
Thick-grown  with  asphodel,  and  other  flowers, 
If  such  there  be,  that,  to  the  Elysian  haunts, 

(i)  I  suppose,  in  this  poem,  the  reader  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
Paradise  Lost.  However,  for  the  allusion  here,  and  that  to  the  sea 
of  pearl  in  the  first  part,  see  the  Third  Book,  500  -  540.  Both  the 
pictures  were  borrowed  by  MILTON  from  the  Divina  Commedia. 


TO  MILTON.  207 

From  the  forbidden  garden  of  Man's  sin, 
Remov'd,  with  never-fading  beauty  spring 
And  never-wasting  fragrance.     By  thee  flow, 
O'er  sands  of  gold,  'twixt  banks  for  ever  green, 
The  murmurant  waters  of  the  fount  of  life, 
Making  soft  music  for  thy  raptur'd  ear. 
In  him  who  sits  beside  thee  do  I  see 
The  Tuscan  bard,  whose  song  was  set  to  grief 
Sharper  perhaps  than  thine  ?  for  he  was  curs'd 
With  sight  as  well  as  sense.     Thy  teacher,  he  ; 
Thy  teacher,  but  surpass'd.     In  converse  now 
With  his  congenial  spirit  art  thou  wrapt. 
Before  ye  both  two  shapes  of  loftier  mien 
Stand  arm  in  arm,  and  listen  to  the  sounds 
With  smiles  angelic-sweet.     From  time  to  time 
They  mingle  in  the  drama  ;  briefly  though, 
As  't  were  in  approbation,  or  reproof. 
From  the  deep  reverence  of  thy  regard 
Bent  on  the  figure  of  more  grave  aspect, 
It  should  be  he,  the  master-hand  of  GREECE, 
That  struck  the  heroic  shell,  and  made  it  yield 
'Neath  his  precipitate  fingers,  as  instinct, 
Sounds  never  heard  before,  not  listen'd  since. 
The  other,  by  the  looks  submiss  yet  fond, 
Wherewith  thy  fellow  greets  his  lightest  word, 
Should  be  the  noblest  singer  of  old  ROME, 
His  guide  and  safeguard  through  the  pits  of  HELL, 
And  nam'd  his  master  ;(i)  surely  with  small  cause  ; 
For  never  two  were  more  unlike  than  they. 

(i)  DANTE  represents  the  poet  VIRGIL  as  guiding  him  through 
the  temporal  and  eternal  fires  (Purgatory  and  Hell).  He  addresses 
him  as  his  Master,  his  Father;  and  VIRGIL  calls  him  Son. 


208  EPISTLE 

Thrice-blest  communion  !  intercourse  of  mind 
I  well  might  envy,  ty'd  to  this  frail  flesh, 
Did  I  believe  it  real,  and  not  write 
Rather  according  to  the  vulgar  thought 
Than  from  my  mind  ;  for  I  am  apt  to  think, 
(Not  fix'd  ;  since  who  on  such  a  point  can  be  ?) 
That  thou  no  more  art  MILTON,  nor  the  three, 
Thy  peers,  still  DANTE,  VIRGIL,  and  the  old 
Heroic  bard  of  ASIA,  but  that  all 
Have  lost  all  token  of  this  lower  world, 
And  in  a  new  existence,  brighter  still, 
If  such  ye  merited  (as  well  I  deem,) 
Pursue,  or  have  pursu'd  new  trains  of  thought, 
To  be  from  other  fetters  like  the  flesh 
Again  releas'd,  for  stages  brighter  still  ; 
Till  thus,  from  stage  to  stage,  perhaps  (who  knoweth  ?) 
From  star  to  star  of  the  endless  chain  of  worlds, 
Passing,  and  purify 'd,  ye  reach  at  length 
The  goal  of  being,  the  perfectness  complete 
Of  your  immortal  essences,  or  be 
Absorb 'd  into  the  bosom  of  your  GOD, 
Whence  first  ye  emanated,  brilliant  rays 
Of  the  great  Sun  of  Suns,  who  is  all  Light, 
There  never  more  to  know  cloud  or  eclipse. 

Yet,  let  me  fancy  that  blest  intercourse 
Of  spirit  with  spirit  ;  for  it  soothes  the  heart 
Of  weak  humanity  :  and  who  would  wish 
From  those,  alas  !  who  Ve  bury'd  half  their  souls 
And  love  to  dream  the  sever'd  parts  again 
Will  meet  where  shall  be  never,  never  more, 
Division,  who  would  wish  to  break  the  charm 


TO    MILTON.  209 

With  cold  philosophy,  or  dreams  as  vain  ? 

Yes,  let  me  fancy  it  !     How  happy  thou  ! 

For  I  conceive  the  theme  of  thy  discourse,  — 

Akin  to  that  which  prompts  me  now  to  write, 

Yet  doom'd  by  what  I  write  to  be  disturb'd. 

For  when  these  lines  shall  reach  that  happy  bower 

(By  what  wing'd  messenger  I  not  inquire. 

Perhaps  thyself  now  hoverest  o'er  the  page, 

To  catch  their  essence,  and  translate  it  there. 

Or  haply  am  I  destin'd,  I,  ere  long 

To  bear  its  import  to  thy  wondering  ear,) 

Their  news,  but  little  look'd  for,  will  amaze, 

If  not  amaze,  disturb  the  congress  blest 

Of  poets  who  look  back  upon  the  World 

And  love  the  reminiscence  of  their  fame. 

Behold  of  the  great  twain  the  empire  fallen, 
And  DANTE'S  throne  and  thine  alike  unfix'd  ! 
Fools  mount  the  steps,  and  men  of  feeble  mind 
Grasp  at  the  sceptre,  and  affect  the  crown, 
Whose  weight  they  cannot  lift,  nor  circle  fill. 
The  prize  beyond  their  reach,  they  rear  instead 
A  parchment  bonnet,  dight  with  little  bells, 
And  wield  a  leaden  truncheon  carv'd  and  trimm'd 
With  the  like  tinkling  substitute  for  gems. 
The  usurpers  have  their  parasites  ;   and  these, 
When  the  dull  symbol  's  rear'd  and  cap  put  on, 
Lift  up  their  mouths  agape,  and  volumes  roll 
Of  unintelligible  sounds  of  laud, 
Which  the  mere  vulgar  crowd  that  wait  without 
Take  for  brave  sense,  and  echo,  jubilant, 
With  imitative  bray,  and  plaudits  bold. 
18* 


210  EPISTLE 

Then,  when  the  tinsel'd  mummer  stirs  abroad, 
And  the  fool's  pageant  struts  before  their  eyes, 
And  in  the  gaudy  sun  the  small  bells  sparkle 
And  their  shook  sides  ring  out  a  slender  sound, 
Blinded,  inebriate  with  the  coarse  delight 
They  clap  their  ready  hands  amain,  and  shout, 
"  'T  is  MILTON'S  self!     Lo,  DANTE  come  again  ! 
O  happy  day  !     O  age  most  fortunate  ! 
The  Muse  once  more  revisits  the  glad  earth  : 
The  people  hear,  renew'd  and  tenfold  strong, 
The  very  strains  that  thrill'd  their  fathers'  ears. 
O  happy  day  !     O  age  of  ages,  this  !  " 

O  lamentable  day  !     Thus  have  I  seen, 
Thus  do  I  see,  and  see  with  huge  disdain, 
Illustrious  Parent,  thy  great  art  bely'd, 
And  a  mean  bard,  of  most  ignoble  skill, 
Presumptuous  strain,  thy  dulcet  and  grand  tones, 
That  never  yet  were  match'd  by  mortal  reed, 
To  pipe  with  his  shrill  instrument,  and  term 
(Just  Heaven  !  hast  thou  no  wrath  for  poets'  frauds  ?) 
An  Infant's  lullaby  a  song  like  thine  ! 
And  what  is  more,  a  base  and  stolid  crowd 
Welcome  with  joy  uncouth  the  monstrous  claim. 
'T  is  as  if  men,  who  'd  watch'd  an  eagle  soar 
Until  they  lost  him  in  the  azure  void, 
Should  straightway  follow  with  their  gaze  some  kite 
That  chanc'd  to  sail  along  the  self-same  track, 
But  nigher  earth,  and  shout  with  stupid  joy, 
"  Lo  you,  another  of  the  eyrie  flown  ! 
Ah,  royal  bird,  thou  too  wilt  seek  the  sun  !  " 


TO  MILTON.  211 

Alas,  great  Parent  !  and  again,  alas  ! 
It  is,  I  fear,  in  part  thy  proper  fault  ; 
The  fatal  negligence  wherein  thou  fellest, 
When,  from  thy  heavenward  soar  descending,  thou 
Didst  fold  upon  the  earth  thy  weary  wings. 
T  was  then  thou  shouldst  have  been  most  wary,  then 
Thou  shouldst  have  measur'd  well  thy  laboring  steps, 
When  in  the  ken  and  cognizance  of  those 
Whose  eyes  were  dazzled  by  thine  upward  flight 
And  lost  thee  sometimes  when  most  nigh  the  sun. 
For  these  observ'd  thee  falter,  mark'd  thy  tread, 
Where  broken,  where  irregular,  and  where  weak, 
And  found  thy  march  on  earth  was  nothing  proud, 
But  dull  as  others',  and  forgot  thy  wings,  — 
Hence  deem'd  it  easy  to  pursue  thy  path, 
Tread  with  thy  pace,  and  call  their  lounge  a  march. 

Perhaps  't  is  well  ;  perfection  rouses  Hate, 
And  Envy  loves  not  brightness  never  dimm'd. 
Haply  thou  therefore  art,  for  this  alone, 
Still  grac'd  with  adoration,  andMnhalest 
The  incense  of  a  throng  that  love  thee  not, 
Nor  sufferest  so  foul  and  large  a  wrong 
As  the  great  poet  of  the  moral  lay, 
Who  came  behind  thee,  in  a  sequent  age, 
Whose  wit,  and  melody,  and  wisdom  rare 
Gives  Imperfection  umbrage. 

But  this  said 

Reminds  me  that  I  have  to  write  to  him. 
Unwillingly  I  leave  thee.     Yet,  farewell  ! 
More  would  I  say  but  that  there  lacketh  space, 


212  EPISTLE 

And  rarely  has  the  full  heart  room  to  act. 
Commend  me  to  thy  comates  of  the  bower  ; 
Read  them  my  words,  and  offer  what  I  send  : 
The  FLORENTINE,  to  him  rny  deep  respect  ; 
The  Patriarch  of  Song,  my  filial  kiss  ; 
And  VIRGIL,  O  to  him,  give  all  my  love  ! 


TO  POPE.  213 

EPISTLE    II. 
TO   POPE. 

How  surely,  in  this  life's  still-changing  state, 
The  brightest  names  must  share  the  common  fate, 
Doom'd  in  a  day,  whose  splendors  soon  are  past, 
To  rise,  to  culminate,  and  set  at  last, 
Thy  great  example,  POPE,  may  well  attest. 
Once,  who  like  thee  applauded,  lov'd,  carest  ? 
But  now  thy  muse,  by  knave  and  fool  o'erthrown, 
Wakes  rapture  in  the  good  and  wise  alone. 

"  Unhappy  wit,  like  most  mistaken  things, 
Atones  not  for  that  envy  which  it  brings." 
Such  was  the  strain  that  swell'd  thy  tuneful  throat, 
When  EUROPE,  with  amazement  (i),  saw  thee  float, 
Adown  the  perilous  tide  of  moral  song, 
Bold  but  majestic,  graceful  and  yet  strong. 
Thy  scarce-fledg'd  plumes,  refulgent  on  the  wave, 
Receiv'd  not  more  of  lustre  than  they  gave.  (2) 

(1)  The  Essay  on  Criticism  was  written  when  POPE  was  in  his 
twentieth  year.     It  does  not  display  the  exquisite  grace  and  finish 
of  his  later  poems,  and  is  certainly  wanting  in  method ;  but  it  is 
distinguished  throughout  by  the  same  good  sense,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  by  the  same  wit  and  knowledge  of  mankind,  which  have 
made  their  author  the  delight  or  the  envy  of  succeeding  poets. 

(2)  POPE  may  be  considered  to  have  opened  a  new  field  in  didac- 
tic poetry.     Though  his  model,  in  some  respects,  was  HORACE,  yet 
no  one  before  him  had  written  precisely  like  him ;  and  I  know  not 
that  any  one  has  since. 


214  EPISTLE 

May  we  not  deem,  that  later,  when  thy  name 

Had  toilsome  climb 'd  the  summit  of  its  fame, 

When,  seated  on  the  throne  thy  mind  had  rear'd, 

Thou  sawest  thy  sceptre  dreaded  though  rever'd, 

And  while  applauding  millions  shouted  round, 

The  hiss  of  Envy  mingled  with  the  sound, 

This  very  strain,  the  lesson  of  the  youth, 

Then  smote  the  man  in  all  its  moral  truth  ? 

Yet  Hope  still  whisper'd  thee,  A  time  will  come, 

When  Fear  shall  sleep,  and  Envy's  self  be  dumb, 

When,  foe  and  flatterer  alike  no  more, 

Sages  will  love,  and  tuneful  wits  adore, 

And  all  men  laud,  with  unmalignant  eyes, 

The  verse  whose  charm,  with  rapture,  makes  them  wise. 

Alas  !  how  wilt  thou  wonder,  in  thy  sphere, 

To  learn  that  Envy  still  survives  thee  here. 

O'er  thy  cold  ashes  crouch'd,  the  demon  waits, 

And,  writhing,  syllables  the  name  she  hates, 

Draws  on  the  dusty  stone  thy  mortal  shape, 

Nor  spares  thy  morals,  though  thy  song  escape,  (i) 

(i)  In  the  Prologue  to  the  Satires,  POPE  had  said  : 

"  The  tale  reviv'd,  the  lie  so  oft  o'erthrown ; 

The  morals  blacken'd  when  the  writings  'scape, 
The  libell'd  person,  and  the  pictur'd  shape." 
Wise  as  he  was  in  the  human  heart,  little  could  the  bard  have 
dreamed  that  these  atrocities  would  be  repeated  a  hundred  years 
after  his  death,  and  with  all  the  passion  of  a  fresh  attack.    His 
poetic  fancy  and  his  faultless  ear,  his  pathos  even,  his  occasional 
sublimity,  might  have  been  forgiven  him ;  but  that  he  should  unite 
sense,  and  wit,  and  wisdom,  to  the  sweetest  and  most  vigorous  of 
muses,  was  an  injury  and  an  aggravation  intolerable. 


TO  POPE.  215 

Lo  !  where,  a  fustian  nightcap  o'er  his  brow, 
Stretch'd  on  some  mead,  or  shelter'd  in  a  mow, 
His  jacket  doff 'd,  one  rusty  shoe  unlac'd, 
His  stockings  garterless,  and  hose  unbrac'd, 
The  scribe  of  ballads  and  false  sonnets  (i)  sits, 
Jack  Ketch  and  Rhadamanth  of  bards  and  wits  ! 
A  roll  of  candle-wrapper  serves  his  need, 
A  pewter  standish,  and  a  sharpen'd  reed. 
First,  to  inspire  him  with  the  proper  mood, 
He  chants,  twice  o'er,  the  Children  in  the  Wood, 
With  gesture  fierce,  then  cons,  with  sweating  face, 
Thy  mean  friend's  rhapsody  on  Chevy  Chase  (2). 

(1)  Perhaps  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  Mr.  WORDS- 
WORTH'S deficiency  of  taste,  and  not  the  least  Gothic  of  innova- 
tions in  the  art  of  versification,  is  the  substitution  of  a  bastard 
stanza  of  fourteen  lines  for  the  legitimate  Italian  sonnet.*    The 
labors  of  poetasters  are,  it  is  true,  greatly  facilitated  by  this  change, 
as  in  that  which  has  taken  place  in  the  construction  of  the  heroic 
couplet;  but  the  music,  of  even  their  trivial  compositions,  how 
much  of  richness  has  it  lost !     For  the  rest,  Mr.  WORDSWORTH'S 
sonnets,  so  lauded  by  the  fellow-feeling  of  his  admirers,  are,  like 
the  loose  verse  of  his  Excursion,  little  else  than  prose,  and  prose  of 
a  very  tiresome  description. 

(2)  See  in  the  Spectator  (70,  74)  the  papers  where  ADDISOS,  a 
most  incompetent  critic,  however  agreeable  as  a  writer,  endeavours 
to  run  a  parallel  between  Chevy  Chase  t  and  the  JEneid !    A  folly 
which  will  cause  no  wonder  now,  when  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  and 
his  admirers,  and  Mr.  CARLYLZ  and  his,  have  made  us  familiar 
with  greater  aberrances  from  reason. 

*  The  innovation,  however,  is  not  originally  his.  SHAKSPEAHE  made  it 
before  him,  and  was  his  model,  in  a  series  of  these  anomalous  stanzas,  less 
prosaic,  but  more  rugged,  and  very  nearly  as  dull  as  his  own. 

t  Chevy  Chase  is  undoubtedly  an  excellent  old  ballad  ;  but  it  is  made  to 
appear  ridiculous  by  thus  placing  its  low  proportions  and  rude  structure  side 
by  side  with  the  towering  mass  and  finished  architecture  of  the  JEneid. 


216  EPISTLE 

This  done,  he  calls  on  COWPER  with  a  sigh, 
And  thrice  names  COTTON  with  a  moisten'd  eye, 
Then  dips  the  reed,  shuts  either  lid  to  see, 
And,  at  a  stroke,  damns  DRTDKN,  GRAY,  and  thee. 

Who  swings  before  him,  on  a  fence  or  beam, 
The  sire  of  Madoc,  Prince  of  Wales,  I  deem  ; 
Rhyme's  Thalaba,  who,  worst  of  British  foes, 
Smother 'd  JEANNE  D'ARC  in  pyre  of  smouldering  prose; 
Wisest  of  men  !  by  whose  recondite  skill 
Great  MARO  fell,  whom  MJSVIUS  could  not  kill. 
Not  long  upon  his  wooden  steed  astride, 
The  book-learn'd  harlequin  affects  to  ride  : 
Unfix 'd  as  water,  lo  !  where  swinging  round, 
His  right  leg  crook'd,  its  fellow  seeks  the  ground. 
So  women  canter.     Upright  next  he  stands, 
Atiptoe,  balancing,  with  outspread  hands. 
Anon  upon  his  croup  he  falls  again, 
Seesaws  awhile,  then  bounding,  with  a  strain, 
Throws  a  brisk  somersault,  and  on  his  head 
Lights,  —  his  limbs  folded,  and  his  arms  wide-spread. 
His  pale  face  reddens,  purples,  blackens  fast  ; 
But  still  the  brave  brooks  torture  to  the  last, 
Till  near  to  death  he  finds,  with  backward  bound, 
His  feet  once  more,  but  this  time  on  the  ground. 
There,  his  true  element,  the  mummer  sits 
Less  giddy,  and  collects  his  scatter'd  wits. 

From  time  to  time,  his  fellow  with  a  smile 
Has  watch'd  his  antics,  musing  all  the  while. 
These  bounds  and  vaults  re-fire  the  rustic's  brain, 
Imp  his  maim'd  wing,  and  swell  his  shrunken  vein. 


TO  POPE.  217 

With  double  zeal,  he  flutters  o'er  the  page, 
Froths  at  the  mouth,  and  apes  poetic  rage, 
Spurns  Earth  itself  when  Zany's  heels  arise, 
And  beards  JEHOVAH  thundering  in  his  skies. 

Now,  what  his  weary  spirits  and  hands  resign, 
The  reed  poetic,  and  the  vast  design, 
The  droll  assumes,  and  lo  !  the  great  in  song 
Damn'd  o'er  again  !  but  with  a  will  less  strong. 
With  his  friend's  cap  he  crowns  in  turn  his  skull, 
And  prays  the  gods  to  make  him  doubly  dull. 
The  prayer  is  heard  :  in  zigzag  current  flows, 
Thick,  turbid,  small,  the  dull,  slow,  laboring  prose. 
He  calls  it  verse,  and,  bookish,  leaves  the  rhyme 
Unknown  to  poets  of  the  olden  time, 
But  leaves  the  measure  too.     Before  him,  see  ! 
The  ungarter'd  clown,  to  wake  the  ecstasy, 
Acts  in  his  turn  an  old  familiar  round 
Of  antics  o'er,  —  but  acts  them  on  the  ground,  — 
Creeps  on  all  fours,  or  totters  with  a  staff", 
Apes  Goody's  gossip  and  sweet  Baby's  laugh, 
Now  cracks  a  whip,  now  bears  a  beggar's  bag, 
Plays  Puss-in-corner,  Blind-man 's-bufF,  and  Tag, 
Scotch-hoppers,  Leap-frog,  Hustle-cap,  and  Tor,  — 
Or  gives  the  Moon  one  hare-brain 'd  Idiot  more. 
The  poet  marks  the  scene,  and  from  his  reed 
Grandame,  maid,  infant,  boy  combin'd,  proceed, — 
Teacher  before,  now  acts  a  scholar's  part 
And  from  his  proselyte  new  learns  his  art, 
Notes  his  undress,  and,  bent  to  out-fool  the  fool, 
Makes  bare  his  hinder  parts,  to  keep  him  cooL 
19 


218  EPISTLE 

Then  Eclogues  creep,  and  boneless  Ballads  crawl  ; 
These  hair'd  with  rhyme,  but  blind  grub  insects  all. 
To  inspire,  the  rustic  gapes,  thrice  clamors  Curr ! 
Calls  it  a  hoot,  and  tags  it  with  a  burr  !  (i) 
But  soon  the  facile  spirit  shakes  its  wings, 
Heaves  from  the  earth,  and  upward  proudly  springs, 
Awhile  near  heaven,  on  vigorous  pennon,  bold, 
Meets  the  sun's  rays,  and  dips  its  plumes  in  gold, 
Then,  hidden  in  some  cloud,  more  lowly  flies,  — 
To  soar  again,  and  dazzle  vulgar  eyes. 
(But,  first  of  all,  I  beg  thee  to  suppose, 
He  button'd  up  his  breeches,  ere  he  rose.) 
Kehama,  Thalaba  then  saw  the  light, 
Fantastic  shapes,  in  motley  vesture  dight  ; 
Now  like  their  sire,  as  when  he  sail'd  in  air  ; 
Now,  as  he  cower'd,  and  left  his  blind  side  bare. 

Kehama  ?    Thalaba  ?   Their  fame,  I  see, 
Not  yet  hath  reach'd  the  sphere  of  wit  and  thee. 
But  ask,  their  history  will  BYRON  tell, 
Who  mock'd  them  here,  on  earth,  perhaps  too  well. 
BYRON  !  bright  name  !     Behold,  poetic  sage, 
Thy  warmest  advocate  in  this  cold  age. 
BRITAIN'S  best  poet,  since  thy  muse  expired, 
Rich  in  thy  wit,  with  all  thy  rapture  fired, 
Grand,  tender,  oftentimes  almost  divine, 
But  rough  with  dross  as  ore  when  in  the  mine,  — 
Or  like  the  mass,  when  fus'd  its  metals  run, 
Mix'd  with  the  floating  scurf,  distinct  yet  one,  — 

(i)         "  The  owlets  hoot,  the  owlets  curr, 

And  Johnny's  lips  they  burr,  burr,  bun'." 

The  Idiot  Boy.    (See  Vis.  of  R.p.  396.) 


TO  POPE.  219 

He  had  the  taste  to  feel  thy  better  art, 

The  candor  to  confess  it,  and  the  heart. 

Not  strong  enough  his  genius  for  the  rein 

Thine  brook'd  with  ease,  more  vigorous  from  the  strain(i), 

Not  weak  enough  to  keep  the  ambling  pace 

Of  minds  less  mettled,  and  of  meaner  race, 

He  left  behind  thy  dull  maligners'  sect, 

And  reach 'd  all  merit,  save  to  be  correct. 

Persuaded  of  his  own  deficience,  still 

No  envy  stung  him  for  thy  better  skill  ; 

His  mind  too  large,  his  spirit  was  too  high. 

Cant  he  despis'd,  and  loath'd  the  bigot's  lie, 

And,  braving  the  despite  to  Truth  still  shown, 

Drew  on  himself  thy  foes,  to  back  his  own.  (2) 

One  voice  like  his  a  thousand  wrongs  requites, 

The  zealot's  slanders,  and  the  dunce's  slights  ; 

One  voice  like  this  hereafter  will  outweigh 

All  that  a  thousand  meaner  tongues  may  say, 

When  Time,  the  vulgar  muse  that  seldom  spares, 

Graves  deep  his  record,  and  effaces  theirs. 

(1)  POPE  has  himself  said,  with  his  usual  truth,  though  not  with 
his  usual  grace  : 

"  The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse, 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his  course." 

Essay  on  Crit.  86. 
He  is  not,  however,  imitated  in  the  text. 

(2)  BYRON,  however,  carried  his  admiration  for  POPE  a  little  too 
far.    I  have  read  that  he  set  his  favorite  above  MILTON  and  above 
SHAKSPEARE.     This  was  extravagance,  if  not  infatuation.     The 
poet's  ardent  spirit  marred  his  judgment  as  a  critic,  which  other- 
wise appears  to  have  been  sound.     As  in  censure  he  degraded  the 
object  of  his  animadversion  below  its  real  level,  so  in  praise  he 
carried  his  eulogy  beyond  due  bounds,  —  the  very  error  of  the  age. 
Witness  his  admiration  of  SHERIDAN. 


220  EPISTLE 

O,  could  I  hope,  that  I  too  might  pretend 
To  name  myself  thy  advocate,  thy  friend  ! 
That  when  thy  sun  shall  mount,  as  mount  ere  long 
It  will  again,  the  heaven  of  wit  and  song, 
My  little  star  before  its  path  may  gleam, 
And  indicate  to  men  the  coming  beam  ! 
Not  without  honor  then  the  truthful  tongue  ; 
Nor  will  my  song  have  all  in  vain  been  sung. 
That  hour  of  joy  and  triumph  will  repair 
Years  of  neglect,  and  sufferings  still  to  bear. 
For  then,  when  Poesy  shall  live  again, 
And  the  true  Nymphs  replace  a  harlot  train, 
When  Sense  and  Sound  once  more  shall  be  ally'd, 
And  Art  and  Nature  flourish  side  by  side, 
Shall  men,  uplifting  their  bedazzled  eyes 
From  the  long  sleep,  to  mark  thy  brilliant  rise, 
Shout,  in  their  rapture  at  the  vanish'd  night, 
He,  he  too,  saw,  and  durst  announce  the  light ! 


TO  JUVENAL.  221 

EPISTLE    III. 

TO  JUVENAL. 

LORD  of  the  iron  harp  !  thou  master  of  diction  satiric, 
Who,  with  the  scourge  of  song,  lash'd  vices  in  monarch 

and  people, 
And  to  the  scoff  of  the  age,  and  the  scorn  of  all  ages 

succeeding, 
Bar'd  the  rank  ulcers  of  sin  in  the  loins  of  the  Mistress 

of  Nations  ! 

I,  who  have  touch'd  the  same  chords,  but  with  an  indif- 
ferent finger, 
Claim  to  belong  to  the  quire,  at  whose  head  thou  art 

seated  supernal. 
More,  I  have  read  thee  all  through,  from  the  first  to  the 

ultimate  spondee,  — 
Therefore   am  somewhat  acquaint  with  thy  spirit  and 

manner  of  thinking. 
Knowing  thee,  then,  I  presume  to  address  without  more 

introduction 
Part  of  this  packet  to  thee,  and,  out  of  respect  to  thy 

manes,  — 
Owing  not  less  unto  thine  than  I  render 'd  to  POPE'S  and 

to  MILTON'S,  — 
Whirl  my  brisk  thoughts  o'er  the  leaf,  on  the  wheels  of 

thy  spondees  and  dactyls. 

Doubtless,  by  this  time  at  least,  thou  art  fully  conver- 
sant with  English  ; 
But,  shouldst  thou  stumble  at  all,  lo  !  POPE  close  at 

hand  to  assist  thee. 


222  EPISTLE 

Last  of  the  poets  of  ROME  !  thou  never  wouldst  dream 

from  what  region 
Cometh  this  greeting  to  thee  ;  no  bard  of  thy  kind  hath 

yet  mounted 
Up  to  the  stars  of  the  wise,  from  the  bounds  of  the 

Ocean  Atlantic. 
Green  yet  the  world  of  the  West,  how  should  it  yield 

matter  for  satire  ? 
Hither  no  doubt,  from  thy  LATIUM,  the  stone-eating 

husband  of  RHEA 
Fled  from  the  vices  of  men,  as  thou  in  thy  turn,  rather 

later, 
Went  to  PENTAPOLIS  (i).     Here,  the  Saturnian  age  is 

restored  : 
Witness  ASTR^EA'S  own  form  on  the  dome  of  the  palace 

of  justice  ! 
Here,  in  his  snug  little  cot,  lives  each  one  content  with 

his  neighbour, 

Envy,  nor  Hatred,  nor  Lust,  nor  any  bad  passion,  tri- 
umphant ; 
Avarice  known  not  in  name,  —  for  devil  a  soul  hath  a 

stiver. 
How  then,  you  ask,  do  we  live  ?  O,  nothing  on  earth  is 

more  simple  ! 

(i)  JUVENAL,  in  his  old  age,  was  sent  in  honorable  banishment 
to  the  African  PENTAPOLIS.*  He  was  a  native  of  AQ.UINUM  t  in 
LATIUM,  whither  SATURN  fled  for  refuge  from  JUPITER.  The 
allegory  of  SATURN  (Time)'s  devouring  his  own  children  ;  RHEA'S 
deception ;  the  Silver  Age  ;  are  familiar  to  the  commonest  readers. 

*  Or  CYRENAICA  ;  a  province  on  the  Mediterranean,  between  the  modern 
kingdoms  of  TRIPOLI  and  EGYPT. 

t  Now  Aquino  ;  between  ROME  and  NAPLES,  and  northeast  of  TERRACINA. 
Latium  is  the  modern  States  of  the  Church. 


TO  JUVENAL.  223 

A.  has  no  coat  to  his  back  ;   or,   B.   is  deficient  in 

,  breeches : 

C.  makes  them  both  without  charge,  and  comes  upon  A. 

for  his  slippers, 
While  for  his  shelterless  head  B.  gratefully  shapes  him 

a  beaver. 
'T  is  the  perfection  of  peace  !  social  union  most  fully 

accomplish'd  ! 

Man  is  a  brother  to  man,  not  a  rival,  or  slave,  or  op- 
pressor. 
Nay,  in  the  compact  of  love,  all  creatures  are  joyful 

partakers. 
Thus  have  I  seen  the  new  mother,  whose  fountains  were 

over  replenish'd, 
When  from  the  rose-tinted  tube  her  cherub,  with  sigh  of 

contentment, 
Closing  its  innocent  eyes,  had  withdrawn  its  soft  lips  in 

repletion, 
Yield,  with  a  smile,  the  rich  fount,  to  be  press'd  by  the 

gums  of  a  kitten  ; 
Then,   in  her  absence,  the  babe,  on  its  back  in  the 

couch  of  Grimalkin, 
Play  with  the  visionless  young,  and  the  dam,  with  a 

civiliz'd  pleasure, 
Purring,  and  swinging  her  tail,  lick,  pat  with  her  paws, 

and  caress  it. 
Beautiful  world  !    What  more  ?   Priests,  lawyers,  and 

doctors  are  useless ; 
Sin  being  not,  and  a  bond  'twixt  the  flesh  and  the  Devil 

unheard  of. 
Women,  too,  lie  not  at  all  ;  and  the  maidens,  albeit 

bewitching, 


224  EPISTLE 

Cold  are  as  JUNO,  and  chaste  as  DIANA  and  PALLAS  to- 
gether. 

Soft !  I  have  written  too  fast.  Is  't  not  thou,  in  a 
satire  the  keenest, 

Sure,  of  the  dozen  and  four,  that  have  made  thee  im- 
mortal, exclaimest : 

Quis  tamen  affirmat,  nil  actum  in  montibus,  aut  in 

Speluncis  ?     Jideo  senuerunt  Jupiter  et  Mars  ?  (l) 

Vain  to  impose  upon  thee  !  Dreams,  visions  of  fantasy 
vanish. 

Gone  the  Saturnian  age.  Up,  up  from  the  land  of 
COLUMBUS 

Rises  the  mist  of  corruption  ;  not  thick  yet  as  that, 
which  the  Old  World 

Wraps  in  a  shade  as  of  night,  where-through  the  rare 
stars  of  the  virtues 

Glimmer  with  ray  scarce  seen,  and  at  moments  are  lost 
altogether  ; 

;No,  not  as  yet,  —  but  spreading,  at  noonday,  the  dusk- 
ness  of  twilight, 

Solar  eclipse,  as  it  were,  on  the  cities  and  fields  of  the 
nation. 

Temperance  staggers  unsham'd,  and  Chastity  needs  not 
her  blushes  ; 

Avarice,  plodding  on  foot,  goes  free  of  the  jeers  of  his 
neighbours  ; 

(i)  Sat.  vi. ;  on  women.  The  poet  has  allowed  that  he  had 
heard  of  one  chaste  woman,  —  who  lived  in  the  country.  He  then 
corrects  himself: 

Who  yet  so  bold  to  affirm,  that  nothing  is  done  in  the  mountains, 
Or  in  the  caverns  ?     Have  JOVE,  then,  and  MARS  fallen  into  senes- 
cence ? 


TO  JUVEJSAL.  225 

Nor,  in  bis  glittering  car,  is  the  prodigal  shunn'd  for 
excesses. 

Over  the  bold  and  the  timid  the  pestilent  haze  is  ex- 
panded. 

Fear  not,  my  JUVENAL,  then,  that  thy  art  will  be  lost 
to  the  New  World. 

Bards  of  thy  sort  will  arise  ;  though  never  shall  one 
have  thy  power. 

I,  even  I,  had  prepar'd,  with  the  thunder  of  moral  in- 
vective, 

Hurl'd  at  this  mist  of  miasm,  this  visible  fume  of  cor- 
ruption, 

Hurl'd  long  ago,  in  my  nonage,  to  lessen  the  mass  of 
the  vapor. 

More  who  so  vain  to  attempt  ?  Who  so  sanguine  to 
dream  to  disperse  it  ? 

Forg'd  were  my  bolts,  but  not  temper'd.  As  thine  was 
their  number  ;  but  other, 

Other  their  strength  ;  not,  as  thine,  being  wrought  on 
Cyclopean  stithy. 

These  laid  aside,  while  with  fire,  half-sportive,  I  shot  at 
RUBETA, 

PUPA,  and  one  or  two  more,  of  such  petulant,  brazen- 
fac'd  dunces, 

Shall  be  forthcoming  ere  long,  if  the  strength,  that 
should  wield  them,  not  fail  me. 

Think  you  their  noise  will  be  heard,  in  the  regions  of 
brightness  supernal  ? 

Proud  should  I  be,  could  I  deem,  that  thyself,  POPE, 
PERSIUS,  and  DRYDEN, 

Others  of  similar  note,  would  exult  in  the  tuneful  explo- 
sion. 


226  EPISTLE 

Meanwhile,  my  JUNIUS,  farewell  ;  I  must  finish  this 

letter  abruptly  : 
Time  on  the  earth,  as  thou  know'st,  is  not  cheap,  though 

with  you  in  abundance  : 
Then  I  Ve  a  missive  to  write,  of  some  length,  to  his 

sulphurous  Highness. 
Start  not  ;  though  penn'd  at  one  time,  with  thy  own, 

and  with  POPE'S,  and  with  MILTON'S, 
Not  the  same  post  will  convey  't  to  the  confines  of  utter- 
most darkness. 
W — BB  will  himself  be  the  messenger,  should  he  depart 

in  due  season. 
Else  of  the  spirits  that  tend,  at  his  desk,  to  subserve  his 

occasions, 
Some  one  it  may  be  will  take  it ;  or,  should  a  mere  wish 

be  sufficient, 
Doubt  not  his  very  good  will  to  despatch  it  express  to 

the  Devil.* 
Therefore,  dear  DECIUS,  adieu.     Pray  commend  me  to 

FLACCUS  ;  and  tell  him, 
Merely  from  love  to  his  strain  I  have  mimick'd  a  few  of 

his  measures, 
Giving  the  whilst,  out  of  mischief,  his  sense  in  a  parody'd 

version. 

*  Mem.    As  to  wits,  like  thyself,  no  name  of  a  dunce  ever  reaches, 
Save  when  he  crosses  their  path, — which  cannot  be  easy  in  HEAV- 
EN,— 

He  who  is  going  to  HELL,  post-haste,  with  my  missive  to  SATAN, 
Edits  a  news-sheet  on  earth,  (ask  POPE  for  the  meaning,)  where 

flourish 
Principles  always  at  lop,  but  never  i'  th'  midst  or  at  bottom. 


TO  SATAN.  227 

EPISTLE    IV. 
TO   SATAN. 

BEFORE  your  Highness's  attention 
Invoking  to  my  sheet's  narration, 
I  take  the  liberty  to  mention 
A  source  of  doubt  and  some  vexation. 
I  wrote  to  MILTON  in  his  measure, 
To  POPE  and  JUVENAL  in  theirs, 
But  know  not  just  what  rythmus  bears 
The  seal  of  your  high  approbation, 
Or  to  the  infernal  Nine  gives  pleasure. 
To  write  in  DANTE'S  grave  terzetti, 
Who  made  your  back  a  stairs  in  HELL  (i), 
Though  it  would  suit  me  quite  as  well, 
Would  weary  and  perhaps  might  fret  ye. 
The  strain  wherein  the  Laureate  raises 
To  HEAVEN  the  soul  of  GEORGE  the  THIRD, 
From  the  great  justice  of  its  praises, 
Would  be,  I  have  no  doubt,  preferr'd.  (2) 

(i)  The  reader  of  the  Inferno  will  remember  the  descent  of  the 
poets,  in  the  last  canto,  down  the  spine  of  BEELZEBUB,  in  order 
to  get  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  ;  one  of  those  grotesque  absurd- 
ities by  which  the  sublimity  of  ALIGHIERI  is  as  much  disfigured  as 
that  of  his  follower  and  imitator,  MILTON,  though  more  amusingly. 

(a)  The  Vision  of  Judgment;  the  poetry  of  which,  if  I  may  judge 
from  the  passages  so  liberally  quoted  in  the  twelfth  volume  of 
MURRAY'S  edition  of  Byron,  has  been  too  much  censured.  I  mean 
the  mere  poetry  of  the  language ;  the  rythm,  like  most  other  of 
Mr.  SouTHEr's  versification,  is  reducible  to  no  known  law ;  and 


228  EPISTLE 

But  that  is  JUVENAL'S  hexameter  ; 

At  least  its  author  calls  it  so ; 

Though  whether  such,  or  mix'd  pentameter, 

Derventi'onian  heptameter, 

Octameter,  or  enneameter, 

The  mists  of  Skiddaw  only  know,  (i) 

But  that,  I  say,  is,  or  should  be, 

The  verse  I  wrote  to  DECIUS  in  ; 

And  very  far  the  thought  from  me, 

To  put  on  an  equality 

You,  the  dread  Majesty  of  Sin, 

often  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  it  be  any  rythm  at  all.  The 
equity  of  the  Judgment  is  a  perfect  farce.  The  following  lines  will 
be  particularly  admired  by  AMERICANS,  who  will  have  the  pleasure 
of  beholding  the  Father  of  their  Country  treated,  for  the  first  time, 
as  a  tool : 

"  'Here  then  at  the  Gate  of  Heaven  we  are  met ! '  said  the  spirit ; 
'  King  of  England  !  albeit  in  life  opposed  to  each  other, 
Here  we  meet  at  last.     Not  unprepared  for  the  meeting 
Ween  I ;  for  we  had  both  outlived  all  enmity,  rendering 
Each  to  each  that  justice  which  each  from  each  had  withholden. 
In  the  course  of  events,  to  thee  I  seem'd  as  a  Rebel, 
Thou  a  Tyrant  to  me  ;  —  so  strongly  doth  circumstance  rule  men 
During  evil  days,  when  right  and  wrong  are  confounded  ! ' 
'  Washington  ! '  said  the  monarch, '  well  hast  thou  spoken,  and 

truly. 

Just  to  thyself  and  to  me.  On  them  is  the  guilt  of  the  contest 
Who,  for  wicked  ends,  with  foul  acts  of  faction  and  falsehood, 
Kindled  and  fed  the  flame  :  but  verily  they  have  their  guerdon. 
Thou  and  I  are  free  from  offence.'  " 

(i)  Greta  Hall,  the  seat  of  Mr.  SOUTHEY,  is  close  to  the  little 
town  of  KESWICK  in  CUMBERLAND,  at  the  northern  extremity  of 
Derwent-water.  Skiddaw  is  a  mountain  at  the  same  end  of  the 
lake.  Derwent  is  in  Latin,  Derventio. 


TO  SATAN.  229 

And  a  mere  subject  such  as  he  ; 
You,  of  celestial  porcelain, 
Albeit  not  free  of  flaw  and  stain, 
With  him,  whate'er  his  contents'  worth, 
A  vase,  now  potsherd,  of  the  earth. 
Again,  if  it  be  SOUTHET'S  own, — 
And  surely  no  one  else  could  make  it,  — 
And  if  the  Devil  approve  the  tone 
In  which  his  mystery  's  made  known, 
'T  is  much  above  my  pitch  I  own, 
And  (pardon,  that  I  fling  this  stone  !) 
The  devil,  for  aught  I  care,  may  take  it ! 
Perhaps  you  are  yourself  a  poet, 
Being  king  of  fiction,  as  they  say, 
And  (MILTON  and  RUBETA  (i)  show  it) 
Have  had  some  practice  in  your  day, 
When,  first  of  all  the  angelic  fires  (2), 
You  swept  sublime  the  golden  wires, 
And  set,  for  superhuman  ears, 
The  diapason  of  the  spheres. 
But  having  in  Rubeta's  Vision  (3) 
Rais'd  high  the  structure  of  your  glory, 
Wherein,  without  your  supervision, 
From  basement-floor  to  attic-story, 
I  've  carv'd  the  wonders  of  your  reign, 
And  done  in  stucco  your  connexion 
With  the  great  hero  of  my  strain, 
That  personage  whose  sage  direction 
Of  your  affairs  should  make  you  vain, 

(i)  See  note  2,  page  252.  (2)  Seraphim. 

(3)  The  Fifth  Canto,  whose  completion  I  here  anticipate. 

20 


230  EPISTLE 

Since  a  wise  stewardship,  't  is  plain, 

Does  honor  to  the  lord's  selection, 

Nor  proves  a  source  alone  of  gain  ; 

Having,  I  say,  by  this  erection, 

Obtain'd  a  right  to  your  indulgence, 

I  will,  undazzled  by  the  effulgence 

Of  your  high  birth  and  present  rule, 

Address  you  in  an  off-hand  way, 

As  though  we  both  were  made  of  clay, 

And  had  been  chums  at  Harvard  school. 

Your  Highness  will  not  be  offended  : 

The  Prussian  Caesar  (i)  condescended 

To  correspond  with  men  of  wit ; 

Nor  all  that  he  himself  hath  writ, 

Nor  yet  his  triple  glory  blended, 

Of  legislator,  warrior,  sage, 

His  realm  extended  and  defended, 

Have  done  so  much  to  make  him  known, 

To  readers  of  the  present  age, 

As  that  one  circumstance  alone. 

You  are  a  king  too,  not  the  worst 

Of  all  the  sceptred  tribe  accurst 

That  have  from  NIMROD  down  been  reckon'd, 

And  will  permit  me,  I  dare  swear, 

To  assume  to  you  a  freer  air 

Than  ROLLIN,  FONTINELLE,  VOLTAIRE, 

CONDORCET,  D'ARGENS,  D'ALEMBERT, 

Assum'd  tow'rd  FREDERIC  the  Second. 

(i)  FREDERIC  the  Great.  The  term  is  used,  merely  in  allusion 
to  his  having  combined,  like  JULIUS,  the  qualities  of  the  scholar 
and  soldier.  Otherwise,  I  see  no  particular  resemblance  in  their 
characters,  and  none  whatever  in  their  fortunes. 


TO  SATAN.  231 

Besides,  a  freeman  born,  I  am 

No  awe-struck  worshipper  of  crowns  ; 

And  should  my  levity  displease  you, 

Though  may  I  die  if  I  would  tease  you, 

I  beg  to  say  that  for  your  frowns 

I  really  shall  not  care  a  damn. 

Who  are  you,  what  may  be  your  form, 
Is  more  than  I  pretend  to  know. 
I  think  you  dwell  in  regions  warm  ; 
My  grandame  always  told  me  so. 
But  then  she  said,  you  had  a  tail, 
And  hoof  divided,  like  a  bull ; 
And  there,  I  think,  her  mind  did  fail ; 
For  that  would  be  too  wonderful. 
One  thing  I  hold  beyond  dispute  ; 
Which  is,  that  to  this  upper  ray 
Your  influence  does  sometimes  shoot, 
And  in  a  most  surprising  way. 
For,  devil  take  me  !  (this  in  jest,) 
If  I  not  feel  you  in  my  breast, 
I  mean  your  fire,  ofttimes  so  stirring, 
That  though  I  were  to  get  by  heart 
My  Common  Prayer  book,  part  by  part, 
I  could  not  keep  this  flesh  from  erring. 
I  feel  you  now  ;  for  lo  !  where  rise, 
Before  my  fancy,  SYBIL'S  eyes  ! 
But  tell  me,  are  you  really  he 
Who,  MILTON  wills  us  to  believe, 
Lay  coil'd  beneath  the  fatal  tree, 
And  made  too  wise  our  mother  EVE  ? 
Or  did  you  take  another  shape  ; 


232  EPISTLE 

An  oran-outang,  or  an  ape  ? 

If  doctors  are  to  be  believ'd, 

The  tongue  whose  eloquence  deceiv'd, 

Was  one  that  neither  hiss'd  nor  chatter'd, 

But  quiver'd  in  a  finer  head, 

Though  of  what  feature  is  not  said, 

Nor  do  I  think  it  could  have  matter'd. 

They  say,  you  came  equipp'd  and  mounted 

Upon  a  camel  of  great  size  ; 

And  truly,  if  't  were  in  that  wise, 

EVE'S  frailty  cannot  be  accounted 

So  very  strange  in  one  who  'd  eyes  ; 

For  doubtless  you  appear'd  in  state, 

Like  a  fieldofficer  at  least, 

And  must  have  shown  upon  your  beast 

As  something  more  than  second  rate  ; 

Especially,  if,  as  I  read, 

The  camel  was  the  very  snake, 

Which,  serving  you  in  that  your  need, 

Lost  hind  and  fore  legs  for  your  sake,  (i) 

(i)  "  At  nee  hoc  praetereundum,  etc.  But  neither  is  this  to  be 
omitted,  which  our  sages  adduce  in  Medrasch ;  that  the  Serpent  was 
ridden  upon,  and  that  his  bulk  was  that  of  a  camel,  and  that  his 
rider  was  he  who  deceived  Eve,  and  that  this  rider  was  Sammael ; 
which  name  they  use  absolutely  of  Satan.  [The  admirers  of  Der 
Freischutz  will  recognise  an  old  acquaintance.]  For  you  will  find, 
that  in  many  places  they  say  ;  that  Satan  wished  to  hinder  Abraham 
from  binding  Isaac  ;  in  the  same  way,  that  he  wished  to  hinder  Isaac 
from  obeying  the  will  of  his  father.  But,  elsewhere,  in  this  same 
matter  they  say  ;  Sammael  came  to  our  father  Abraham,  and  said  to 
him;  Old  man,  hast  thou  lost  thy  wits  ?  Art  thou  crazed,  etc.  Thus 
therefore  it  appears,  that  Sammael  is  Satan  himself,  and  that  in 
that  name  there  is  some  certain  and  hidden  meaning,  as  in  the 


TO  SATAN.  233 

Though,  in  the  Apocalypse,  ST.  JOHN 
Has  got  again  his  trotters  on,  (i) 
Making  the  same  mistake,  indeed, 
His  namesake  more  sublime  committed, 
Where  in  his  verse  he  puts  the  steed 
For  him  by  whom  the  steed  was  bitted. 

And,  by  the  by,  that  JOHN,  —  Ijnean 
Not  him  by  whom  the  candles  seven,. 
With  other  curious  things,  were  seen, 
Types  fitter  far  for  Earth  than  Heaven, 
But  JOHN,  the  greatest  of  the  name,  — 
Has  made  your  Highness  to  appear 
A  hero  such  as  men  hold  dear  : 
A  picture,  though,  more  bright  than  clear  ; 
Where  you  are  seldom  seen  the  same  ; 
Great,  but  yet  little  ;  kind,  severe  ; 
Not  made  to  scorn,  nor  yet  revere  ; 
Where  admiration  with  our  fear 
And  pity  mingles  with  our  blame.  (2), 

name  Nachasch,  that  is,  Serpent.  They  say  too :  JVhen  he  came 
(the  Serpent)  to  deceive  Eve,  Sammaei  was  riding  upon  him,  and 
God  laughed  to  scorn  the  camel  and  his  rider."  More  Nevochim. 
Pars  ii.  Cap.  xxx.  pp.  280,  281,  ed.  BOXT.  fil.  4to.  Basil.  1629. 

(1)  "  And  the  great  dragon  was  cast  out,  that  old  serpent,  called 
the  Devil,  and  Satan,  which  deceiveth  the  whole  world.". .     Rev. 
xii.  9. 

(2)  .         ..."  Darken'd  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  th'  Archangel.     But  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrench' d,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 

Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
20* 


234  EPISTLE 

Ah,  LUCIFER  !  hadst  thou  remain'd 
But  such  as  thou  wast  painted  first, 
Thy  glory  thou  wouldst  not  have  stain'd, 
But  been  respected,  though  accurst ! 
It  was  a  shabby  trick  at  best, 
A  simple  woman  to  deceive.  f/  ;."  ' 
Or  didst  thou  not,  at  ear  of  Eve 
Squat  like  a  toad,  disturb  her  rest  ? 
Perhaps  't  is  but  the  infirmity 
Of  human  art  hath  made  thee  vile, 
And  thou  didst  never  stoop  to  be 
Both  insignificant  and  mean, 
Merely  on  purpose  to  beguile 
A  creature  so  extremely  green. 

But  to  my  promis'd  information 
Respecting  matters  in  this  world, 
Whereof  you  've  had  the  gubernation 
Since,  greatly  to  our  delectation, 
From  your  own  planet  you  were  hurl'd. 
It  will  delight  you  then,  to  hear 

Waiting  revenge.  Cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,"  etc.  Par.  L  i.  599. 
What  a  pity  that  he  should  have  spoiled  this  picture  (which, 
superb  as  it  is,  is  not  without  its  pendent  in  other  parts  of  the  poem ) 
by  afterwards  making  the  form  of  LUCIFER  utterly  incapable  of 
disfiguration  !  But  spirit  and  corporeal  substance  are  constantly 
jumbled  and  opposed  in  this  confused  and  contradictory  manner 
throughout  the  Paradise  Lost,  so  as  almost  to  give  one  the  impres- 
sion that  the  poet  scarcely  knew,  himself,  what  he  would  be  at, 
and  that  he  had  not  properly  digested  the  plan  of  his  composition. 
In  genius  the  peer  of  SHAKSPEARE,  MILTON  is  not  less  his  parallel 
in  faults. 


TO   SATAN.  235 

That  your  affairs  are  not  declining, 

But  that  we  still  provide  you  here 

The  fuel  wherewith  to  keep  HELL  shining. 

Kings  are  as  temperate  as  ever, 

And  human  rights  as  much  respected, 

But  subjects  not  so  well-affected, 

Alas  !  to  their  well-meant  endeavour,  — 

Which,  in  the  end,  must  cost  you  dear. 

ENGLAND,  as  usual,  is  just, 

Nor  ever  profits  by  her  might  : 

Champion  of  universal  right, 

She  treads  but  tyrants  in  the  dust. 

What  though  she  drenches  with  the  gore 

Of  INDIA'S  sons  their  native  soil  ? 

Their  land  shall  fructify  the  more, 

Nor  common  crops  repay  their  toil  : 

For,  where  that  gore  in  rivers  flows> 

Behold,  the  plant  of  mercy  grows  ; 

And  peace  shall  flower  on  every  turf 

Where  rots  the  carcase  of  a  serf. 

Justice  heeds  not  their  dying  groan  ; 

Freedom  stops  not,  to  count  their  graves  : 

What  !  shall  they  cavil  at  her  slaves, 

Who  frees  the  slaves  that  others  own  ? 

The  STATES'  weak  vessels  search'd  for  chains,  (i) 

(i)  The  .same  aggressions  which  brought  on  the  last  war,  are 
again  practised  on  our  commerce,  under  a  new  pretext.  It  is  time 
they  should  be  stopped.  Will  our  government  never  learn  that 
with  a  people  like  the  ENGLISH  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  for-, 
bearance  ?  Not  that  the  slave  trade  should  not  be  broken  up  ;  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  so  misinterpreted  :  but  what  right  has  a  foreign  na- 
tion to  search  any  vessel  sailing  under  our  flag  where  there  is  no 
treaty  that  allows  the  search  ?  If  every  American  vessel  on  the 


236  EPISTLE 

O'CONNEL'S  conscientious  brogue,  (i) 
Wipe  from  her  shield  such  petty  stains, 
And  stamp  elsewhere  Oppressor,  Rogue. 
What  though  on  iron  ball  and  shell 
A  thousand  souls  seek  you  in  HELL  ; 
What  though  a  thousand  mount  the  sky  ; 
At  JOHN  OF  ACRE  and  BEYROOT  ? 
For  EUROPE'S  cause  those  missiles  fly, 
For  EUROPE'S  cause  the  cannon  shoot. 
And  though  the  walls  no  shot  return, 
Has  BRITAIN  not  her  laurels  won  ? 

coast  of  AFRICA  is  to  be  subjected  to  examination,  let  it  be  done  by 
our  own  cruisers.  Would  the  expense  of  an  additional  squadron  be 
any  thing  in  comparison  with  the  cost  of  a  war,  which  must  come 
soon  or  late,  unless  prevented  by  immediate  measures  of  vigor  ?  * 

(i)  Mr.  O'CoNNEL,  as  it  is  known  to  every  reader,  relieves  his 
spleen  at  the  oppression  of  his  own  country  by  gratuitous  insults 
of  a  land  more  favored.  To  taunt,  however  ignorantly,t  and  to 
calumniate,  however  grossly,  the  people  that  shook  off  the  yoke  of 
English  tyranny,  would  seem  to  be  a  lenient  to  the  shoulders  that 
are  still  galled  by  its  pressure.  This  is  natural  to  minds  of  the 
vulgar  cast  of  Mr.  DANIEL  O'CONNEL'S. 

*  There  are  three  other  causes,  besides  the  one  alluded  to,  either  of  which 
may  one  day  bring  about  a  war  with  ENGLAND.  One  of  them  is  in  actual  oper- 
ation. Yet  how  are  we  providing  for  the  probable  result  ?  By  expending 
dimes  where  are  needed  dollars,  and  by  patching  fortresses  instead  of  building 
fleets.  Three  quarters  of  a  million  for  a  "  home  squadron,"  for  the  entire  sea- 
board !  Why,  twice  the  sum  would  not  defend  the  Lakes. 

t  A  trifling  acquaintance  with  the  nature  of  our  mixed  government,  which 
decency  requires  that  every  one  should  possess  who  pretends  to  talk  about  it, 
would  have  shown  the  Irish  demagogue  that  though  ENGLAND,  carried  away 
by  a  temporary  enthusiasm,  could  purchase  the  freedom  of  the  slaves  in  JA- 
MAICA, and  might  have  set  them  free,  had  she  chosen  it,  without  indemnity  to 
the  owners,  the  American  government  has  no  such  power.  The  property  of 
the  States  is  their  own,  and  none  but  themselves  can  touch  it.  A  feature  in 
our  system  of  polity  which,  perhaps  after  all,  Mr.  O'CONNEL  well  understands  ; 
but  to  avow  it  would  have  been  to  deny  himself  an  opportunity  of  ranting  on 
universal  emancipation. 


TO  SATAN.  237 

Go  where  the  partridge  falls,  and  learn 

The  glory  of  a  well-aim'd  gun  ! 

Art  thou  the  Devil,  and  not  admire 

The  mortal  that  dares  handle  fire  ? 

In  fine,  what  though  her  foot  is  planted 

In  CHINA,  never  to  recede  ? 

Not  for  herself  the  foothold  's  wanted  ; 

All  men  shall  profit  by  the  deed,  (i) 

And  though  a  single  heavy  shot 

Would  sink  the  best  Cathayan  junk, 

If  broadsides  pour  it  matters  not  ; 

Sufficient,  that  the  craft  is  sunk  ; 

And  every  CHINAMAN,  that  gory 

Drops  through  the  water  to  damnation, 

Sends  up  a  bubble  to  her  glory, 

And  fills  her  soul  with  exultation. 

Do  I  not  tell  you,  that  to  kill 

Is  proof  of  valor  and  of  skill, 

Though  that  the  slain  were  fast  asleep,  (2) 

Or  ty'd  like  bulls,  or  held  like  sheep  ? 

(1)  It  was  easy  to  foresee  what  would  be  the  amount  of  British 
disinterestedness   in  the   course   of  the   abominable   attack   upon 
CHINA  ;  and  the  event  has  justified  every  suspicion.     But  it  is 
amusing  to  find  that  while  demanding  possession  of  an  island  in 
the  China  seas,  the  ENGLISH  still  protest  that  they  have  no  view  to 
the  peculiar  interest  of  British  commerce.     With  INDIA  before  our 
eyes,  and  the  entire  history  of  GREAT  BRITAIN,  we  take  the  liberty 
to  form  our  own  opinion.     A  war  begun  in  utter  violation  of  all 
right  (we  may  add,  divine  and  human)  can  have  no  other  than  an 
iniquitous  termination. 

(2)  As  in  the  case  of  the  Caroline,  which,  apart  from  all  question 
of  right,  strikes  us  as  one  of  the  most  cowardly  affairs  on  record. 
Yet  the  British  government  talk  of  pensioning  one  of  those  who  suf- 


238  EPISTLE 

But  when  I  tell  you,  that  the  end, 

(Next  to  possession  of  the  soil) 

Of  all  this  waste  of  ammunition, 

Is  that  the  conquerors  may  send, 

Upon  the  Dragon's  forc'd  submission, 

The  poison  sown  by  Indian  toil 

In  INDIA'S  blood,  to  get  them  pelf, 

And  bring  on  millions  Hell's  perdition, 

You  '11  laugh,  I  think,  like  —  your  own  self. 

For  FRANCE,  your  Highness  will  not  frown 
To  hear  the  people  have  consented 
To  arm  against  themselves  their  town. 
But  brief  your  joy,  if,  this  repented, 
The  townsmen  shall  begin  to  feel 
PARIS  is  made  one  great  Bastille  ; 
For  then,  't  is  like,  they  '11  pull  it  down. 

Of  other  countries  might  I  tell 
Something  of  new,  though  not  of  strange  ; 
But  't  would  be  taking  too  much  range. 
Suffice  it,  all  are  doing  well, 
And  strive  your  royal  grace  to  earn. 
Pass  we  to  matters  less  extern. 


fered  in  the  dirty  act !  (An  insult,  by  the  by,  in  itself,  and  which 
alone,  did  we  think  proper,  might  be  held  a  sufficient  cause  for 
war.)  John  Bull's  avarice  of  military  glory  is  a  perfect  whirlpool ; 
the  smallest  straw,  the  vilest  filth,  go  down  with  the  hugest  and 
most  precious  masses  that  may  come  within  the  vortex. 

The  affair  of  the  Caroline  was  not,  however,  in  mind  when  I 
wrote  the  couplet.  The  allusion  in  the  text  is  solely  to  Commodore 
ELLIOT'S  wanton  destruction  of  the  Chinese  war-junks. 


TO  SATAN.  239 

Doubtless,  your  Majesty  is  viewing, 
With  grief,  what  Father  MATTHEW  's  doing  ; 
Who  (if  I  may  pronounce),  of  all 
The  Apostles  since  the  great  ST.  PAUL,  (i) 
Has  labor'd  most  to  your  undoing. 
But  be  not  anxious  on  that  head  ; 
For,  this  side  of  the  ocean-water, 
A  nation's  arms  to  all  are  spread 
Whom  taxes,  or  the  want  of  bread, 
Or  baffled  villany  have  brought  her  :  (2) 

(1)  Father  MATTHEW  has  been  termed,  in  IRELAND,  the  Apostle 
of  Temperance. 

(2)  "  We  hold  out,"  says  Mr.  TYLER  in  his  Message  to  Congress, 
"  We  hold  out  to  the  people  of  other  countries  an  invitation  to 
come  and  settle   among  us  as   members  of  our  rapidly  growing 
family ;  and,  for  the  blessings  which  we  offer  them,  we  require 
of  them  to  look  upon  our  country  as  their  country,  and  to  unite 
with  us  in  the  great  task  of  preserving  our  institutions,  and  there- 
by perpetuating  our  liberties."     One  would  think  that  we  were 
quite  sufficient  by  ourselves  to  preserve  the  institutions  our  fathers 
transmitted  to  us  and  to  perpetuate  the  liberties  for  which  they 
fought :  to  ask  it  of  foreigners  is  to  ask  the  crow  to  change  his 
feathers  and  the  vulture  to  become  the  dove.    And  how  can  we 
require  of  these  men  to  look  upon  our  country  as  their  country  f    Is 
it  to  be  believed  that  those  wh'o  have  been  reared  abroad,  who  have 
some  of  them  even  grown  gray  in  another  land,  who  have  been  all 
their  past  life  the  subjects  of  a  government  totally  diverse  from 
ours,  is  it  to  be  believed  thai  these,  ignorant  moreover  as  they 
chiefly  are  of  the  very  first  elements  of  knowledge,  let  alone  of  the 
abstruse  and  complicated  nature  of  political  doctrines,  is  it  to  be 
believed  that  these  men  are  to  change  their  entire  nature  in  five 
years,  undo  all  the  prejudices  they  have  been  imbibing  from  their 
infancy,  mix  thoroughly  with  a  people  whose  language  they  can 
hardly  speak,  adopt  their  habits,  their  opinions,  and  finally  merge 
all  affection  for  the  land  they  have  left  in  a  new  love  for  a  land  of 


240  EPISTLE 

And  here,  with  what  is  found  less  dear  in 
Our  shops  than  in  the  huts  of  ERIN, 

strangers  ?  Yes,  all  this  our  laws  of  naturalization  sagaciously  pre- 
sume. And  how  does  the  result  answer  to  this  supposition.  Wit- 
ness the  GERMANS  in  this  city,  who  herd  together,  cherish  their 
own  language,  even  form  a  separate  company  of  militia  !  com- 
manded by  their  own  officers  ! !  and  are  in  fact  a  people  within  a 
people,  among  us  but  not  of  us,  voting  for  their  own  representa- 
tives, &c.  &c.,  as  if  they  were  the  children  of  the  soil.  AMERICA 
is  indeed  the  asylum  of  nations  ;  but  it  is  a  new  thing  for  a  house 
of  refuge  and  of  charity  to  surrender  to  its  inmates  the  manage- 
ment of  the  household. 

And  this  evil,  (which  will  one  day  be  the  death  of  our  liberties, 
already,  in  NEW  YORK,  half-stifled  by  its  oppression,)  this  growing 
evil  is  encouraged  by  the  personal  and  petty  ambition  of  men  in 
office,  who  in  fact  should  scorn  the  suffrages  of  foreigners,  yet  who 
openly  solicit  them  as  if  they  were  the  test  of  AMERICAN  virtue. 
Take  the  single  instance  of  the  present  governor  of  this  State,  who 
actually  proposed  to  have  foreign  teachers,  using  a  foreign  lan- 
guage, in  the  public  schools,  for  the  benefit  of  instructing  the  children 
of  the  refugees,  in  —  the  wisdom  of  their  fathers,  and  the  blessed 
and  refining  prejudices  of  their  father-land,  and  of  keeping  them 
distinct  from  the  children  of  AMERICANS.  Hear  his  language :  "  I  do 
not  hesitate,  therefore,  to  recommend  the  establishment  of  schools 
in  whiqh  they  may  be  instructed  by  teachers  speaking  in  the  same 
language  with  themselves,  and  professing  the  same  faith."  This, 
having  probably  found  it  unpalatable  to  the  good  sense  of  his  con- 
stituents, he  directly  contradicts  in  his  last  message.  "  I  have  not 
recommended,"  he  there  says,  "  nor  do  I  seek  the  education  of  any 
class  in  foreign  languages,  or  in  particular  creeds  of  faith  ...  I 
desire  the  education  of  the  entire  rising  generation  .  .  .  and  in  that 
tongue  which  is  the  universal  language  of  our  countrymen." 

The  nature  of  this  book  will  not  permit  me  to  enter,  so  fully  as  I 
could  desire,  into  a  subject  that  causes  me  more  uneasiness  than 
any  other  matter  public  or  private  that  I  know  of,  or  that  ever  I 
have  known.  But  I  shall  add  certain  facts  which  I  trust  will  make 


TO  SATAN.  241 

And  with  the  laudable  admission 

a  serious  impression  upon  every  reader,  every  reader  who  truly 
loves  his  country,  and  reveres  her  institutions. 

"  Of  one  thousand  and  fifty-eight  children  in  the  Alms-house  of  the 
city  of  NEW  YORK,  one-sixth  part  is  of  American  parentage,  one  sixth 
was  born  abroad,  and  the  remainder  are  the  children  of  foreigners ;  and 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  children  in  the  House  of  Refuge,  more  than  one 
half  were  either  born  abroad,  or  of  foreign  parents."  Gov.'s  Mess.  Jan. 
1841. 

"  The  number  of  emigrants  arriving  at  the  port  of  NEW  YORK,  in 
1828,  was  about  twenty  thousand.  The  number  in  1840  was  sixty  one 
thousand "  Same. 

The  last  importation  was  of  sixty  or  seventy  Maltese  beggars  in 
a  British  vessel  commanded  by  a  British  subject.  The  captain  (or 
a  Friend  of  the  Captain,  as  he  calls  himself,)  states  in  the  JV.  Y. 
American  that  "  jjj>  G70  was  paid  into  the  City  Treasury  to  indem- 
nify the  city  from  any  charge."  For  how  many  weeks  does  our 
munificent  Corporation  undertake  to  maintain  sixty  persons  at  $11 
a  head  ? 

"Not  only  paupers,  but  criminals,  are  transported  from  the  interior  of 
this  country  [GERMANY,]  in  order  to  be  embarked  for  the  U.  STATES  ! 

"A  Mr.  DE  STEIN,  formerly  an  officer  in  the  service  of  the  Duke  of 
SAXE-GOTHA,  has  lately  made  propositions  to  the  smaller  states  of 
SAXONY,  for  transporting  their  criminals  to  the  port  of  BREMEN,  and  em- 
barking them  there  for  the  UNITED  STATES  at  seventy-five  dollars  per 
head  !  which  offer  has  been  accepted  by  several  of  them.  The  first  trans- 
port of  criminals,  who  for  the  greater  part  have  been  condemned  to  hard 
labor  for  life,  (among  them  two  notorious  robbers,  PFEIFER  and  AL- 
BRECHT,)  will  leave  GOTHA  on  the  15th  of  this  month ;  and  it  is  intend- 
ed, by  and  by  to  empty  all  the  workhouses  and  jails  of  that  country  in  this 
manner.  There  is  little  doubt  that  several  other  states  will  imitate  the 
nefarious  practice.  *  *  *  It  has  of  late,  also,  become  a  general  prac- 
tice in  the  towns  and  boroughs  of  GERMANY,  to  get  rid  of  their  paupers 
and  vicious  members,  by  collecting  the  means  for  effectuating  their  pas- 
sage to  the  UNITED  STATES  [where  Governor  S 1>  will  provide  for 

them,]  among  the  inhabitants,  and  by  supplying  them  from  the  public 
funds."  Letter  from  Mr.  LIST,  Consul  for  the  U.  S.  at  LEIPSIC,  dated 
21 


242  EPISTLE 

To  all  the  best  of  us  may  claim, 

March,  1837,  and  addressed  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  (Beacon- 
Light.) 

"In  a  letter  to  the  President,  Aug.  12th,  1837,  the  Mayor  of 
BALTIMORE  states,  that  '  Fourteen  convicts  from  BREMEN  had  been 
landed  there.  They  were  shipped  in  irons,  which  were  not  taken  off 
till  they  were  near  Fort  McHenry.'  "  (Same.) 

Thus  our  taxes  are  increased  for  the  support  of  people  with 
whom  we  have  no  connexion,  and  who  are  a  positive  injury  to  the 
morals,  character,  and  safety  of  our  country.  Many  of  them  go 
directly  to  the  almshouses,  from  the  vessels  in  which  they  arrive ; 
others  are  permitted  to  infest  our  streets  in  the  manner  which  is 
seen  daily,  yet  which  would  appear  to  be  in  no  wise  regarded  by 
those  whose  duty  it  is  to  look  into  such  serious  evils.  Js  there  a 
single  man  or  woman  among  my  readers  who  has  ever,  within  a 
year  or  two,  passed  through  Broadway,  after  nightfall,  without 
being  assailed  by  the  importunate  cries  of  begging  children  ?  Is 
there  a  single  person  who  knows  this  country,  and  this  people,  that 
believes  that  these  are  the  children  of  native  AMERICANS  ?  Again, 
the  criminals  who  we  see,  from  the  letter  of  Mr.  LIST,  are,  in 
their  known  character,  shipped  to  this  country,  and  others  who  un- 
doubtedly must  mix  in  considerable  numbers  with  the  poorer  class 
of  voluntary  emigrants,  all  obtain  that  right  of  suffrage  which 
equal,  or  probably  minor  offences  against  society,  render  unattaina- 
ble by  our  own  citizens  ;  a  right,  moreover,  which  the  native 
blacks,  superior  in  all  respects,  in  education,  morals,  good  conduct, 
to  the  mass  of  emigrant  IRISH,  attached  moreover  to  the  soil  where 
their  fathers  and  their  children  were  born,  and  where  they  them- 
selves derive  from  their  industry  a  support  for  which  no  man  is 
taxed,  but  from  which  many  men  profit,  a  political  right,  I  say, 
which  the  native  blackman  has  to  purchase  by  the  possession  of  a 
certain  amount  of  property  !  and  which  for  this  reason  he  cannot 
always  assume,  which,  from  unjust  prejudices,  he  probably  never 
dares  assume. 

Lastly,  take  these  words  of  JEFFERSON'S,  as  quoted  with  appro- 
bation by  Mr.  S D  :  —  "  The  Constitution  has  wisely  provided 


TO  SATAN.  243 

Before  they  've  learn'd  even  one  iota 

that  for  admission  to  certain  offices  of  important  trust,  a  residence 
should  be  required  sufficient  to  develope  character  and  design. 
But  might  not  the  general  character  and  capabilities  of  a  citizen  be 
safely  communicated  to  every  one  manifesting  a  bona  fide  purpose 
of  embarking  his  life  and  fortunes  permanently  with  us?  " 

Merely  desiring  the  reader  to  note  a  remark  which,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  is  repugnant  to  common  sense,  I  recommend  the  follow- 
ing anecdote  to  Mr.  S D.  Lately,  in  an  interview  with  two 

foreigners,  one  an  ENGLISHMAN,  the  other  a  SCOTCHMAN,  the  latter 
person  took  occasion  to  insult  this  country  (a  common  occurrence 
with  British  subjects.)  Among  other  things,  he  protested  that 
there  never  was  such  another  race  of  rogues  as  the  merchants  of 
NEW  YORK.  As  well  as  my  blood  would  allow  me,  I  demonstrated 
to  him  that  the  characters  of  men  were,  under  similar  circum- 
stances, much  the  same  everywhere,  and  that,  if  there  were  any 
difference  between  the  American  merchants  and  the  British  as  a 
mass,  the  balance  was  rather  in  favor  of  the  former.  The  ENGLISH- 
MAN, the  juster  of  the  two,  partly  sided  with  me,  and  perfectly 
agreed  with  me  as  to  the  general  injustice  and  the  ignorance  of  the 
SCOTCHMAN'S  observations;  and  the  party  broke  up,  as  may  be 
supposed,  in  much  heat,  and  with  no  change  of  opinion  on  either 
side.  One  hour  afterwards  I  learned  that  this  same  SCOTCHMAN 
was  a  naturalized  citizen  of  the  UNITED  STATES.  The  ENGLISHMAN 
(as  no  one,  who  knows  human  nature,  will  be  surprised  to  hear, 
after  the  ingenuous  part  he  had  taken)  had  never  forsworn  his  al- 
legiance to  his  country,  though  he  has  lived  with  us  five  times  as 
long  as  the  other.  The  SCOTCHMAN,  equally  with  the  ENGLISH- 
MAN, was  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  good  education  and  of  some  sub- 
stance. —  This  fact  I  mention  that  it  may  be  seen  therefrom  (for  it 
is  but  one  of  many  cases)  how  truly  foreigners  identify  their  in- 
terests and  feelings  with  those  of  AMERICANS.  But  such  a  fact 
should  not  be  needed  to  prove  what  must  be  evident  to  the  plainest 
understanding  ;  namely  ;  that  the  adopted  citizens  of  this  country 

never,  or,  if  ever,  in  very  rare  instances,  become  what  Mr.  S D 

would  probably  call,  after  JEFFERSON,  bona  fide  AMERICANS.     In- 


244  EPISTLE 

Of  what  befits  their  new  condition,  (i) 

deed,  when  a  man,  under  any  circumstances  whatever,  is  ready  to 
forswear  his  native  land,  it  should  be  taken,  on  the  first  face  of  it, 
as  evidence  that  he  is  unfit  for  the  privileges  of  any  other. 

It  was  THOMAS  JEFFERSON,  to  whom  we  owe  the  curse  of  an 
alteration  of  the  laws  of  naturalization,  which,  before  his  adminis- 
tration, exacted  of  the  foreigner  a  residence  of  fourteen  years  pre- 
viously to  adoption.  Yet  I  see  that  JEFFERSON  is  quoted  as  using 
this  language  :  "  I  hope  we  may  find  some  means,  in  future,  of 
shielding  ourselves  from  foreign  influence,  political,  commercial, 
or  in  whatever  form  it  may  be  attempted.  I  can  scarcely  withhold 
myself  from  joining  in  the  wish  of  SILAS  DEANE, —  that  there  were 
an  ocean  of  fire  between  this  and  the  old  world:"  (a  wish  /  have 
actually  made,  in  another  form,  more  than  once.) 

Mr.  VAN  BUREN  too  is  cited  as  saying,  "  Foreigners  will  make 
our  elections  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing." 

(i)  One  of  the  most  ridiculous  features  of  the  law  of  naturaliza- 
tion, or  that  would  be  so,  could  we  laugh  at  what  we  seriously  be- 
lieve is  destined  to  be  the  ruin  of  our  country,  is  that  it  supposes 
foreigners,  though  they  be  totally  unacquainted  with  English,  to 
attain  in  five  years  what  the  native  citizen  is  twenty-one,  or,  if  you 
will  count  from  his  puberty,  nine  years  in  learning. 

What  does  it  avail  me,  whose  family  for  five  generations  have 
paid  taxes  in  the  country,  me,  who  am  by  blood  and  by  hereditary 
right,  and,  what  is  still  more  to  the  purpose,  by  reason  and  in  prin- 
ciple an  AMERICAN,  what  does  it  avail  me  to  go  to  the  polls  to 

vote  against  Mr.  M s,  because  he  has  disgraced  the  bench  and 

trampled  on  the  rights  of  the  citizen,  and  against  Mr.  S D,  be- 
cause he  is  sacrificing  to  his  ambition  the  interests  of  his  country, 
what  does  it  avail,  when  the  DUTCHMAN  who  clears  my  neigh- 
bour's sink  of  ordure,  the  GERMAN  who,  with  a  hand-cart  and  a 
wire,  gathers  up  the  filthy  rags  in  the  road  between  us,  the  IRISH- 
MAN who  sweeps  the  kennels,  can  by  their  numbers  carry  the  elec- 
tion in  favor  of  one  and  the  other,  and  are  certain  to  do  so,  because 

Mr.  M s  is  a  leader  of  the  party  that  pays  them,  and  Mr.  S D 

is  endeavouring  to  favor  their  respective  nations  at  the  expense 


TO  SATAN.  245 

Or  have  contributed  one  quota 
Of  the  town-dues  the  natives  pay  ;(i) 
Before  they  even  can  spell  one  name 
Of  those  their  voices  bid  command 
And  tax  the  owners  of  the  land  ;  (2) 

of  his  own,  and  because  neither  DUTCHMAN,  nor  GERMAN,  nor 
IRISHMAN,  can  read  one  letter  of  the  names  of  those  they  vote  for, 
and  would  not  understand  their  merits  or  demerits  if  they  could, 
and  because,  finally,  though  they  did  both  read  and  understand,  it 
would  matter  nothing  to  them,  who  have  no  stake  in  the  land,  and 
the  entire  associations  of  whose  life  are  with  other  countries,  and 
who  feel  themselves  to  be  foreigners,  and  who  know  that  all  their 
political  privileges  cannot  put  them  on  a  parity  with  the  wealthier 
and  more  enlightened  natives,  it  could  matter  nothing  to  them  what 
form  of  government  they  were  under,  saving  that  under  the  worst 
their  chances  of  profit  would  perhaps  be  greater,  and  that  anarchy 
might  bring  about  that  change  in  their  favor  which  no  settled  rule 
ever  could. 

(1)  It  cannot  be  supposed  that  the  nightman,  rag-gatherer,  and 
scavenger  aforesaid,  pay  taxes,  when  they  possess  no  property. 
But  this  would  be  nothing ;  for  the  law  does  not  insist  upon  it 
(except  for  black  people)  as  a  qualification  for  the  right  of  suffrage ; 
nor  do  I  know  that  were  it  in  my  power  to  make  it  one,  I  would 
do  so :  but  it  is  a  point  on  which  I  have  no  doubt,  nor  can  any 
other  right-thinking  man,  that  the  inmates  of  almshouses  and  hos- 
pitals, the  dependents  of  the  public  bounty,  should  not  be  admitted 
to  this  privilege.     What  then  will  the  reader  say,  when  I  tell  him 
that  a  physician  of  character,  sometime  attached  to  the  city  poor- 
house,  informed  me  that  the  paupers  were  regularly  turned  out  on 
the  days  of  the  elections,  provided  with  the  proper  tickets  (and  no 
doubt  with  something  more)  to  vote  —  for  those  who  rule  and  tax 
the  people  that  support  them  !    If  this  be  not  like  standing  on  one's 
head,  and  using  one's  hands  to  walk  on,  I  know  not  what  is  natural 
order,  nor  have  any  idea  of  propriety,  of  moral  fitness,  or  of  good 
government. 

(2)  It  will  be  perceived^  that  with  the  suggestion  of  Governor 

21* 


246  EPISTLE 

With  these  two  moral  aids,  I  say, 
They  're  nicely  broken  to  your  hand. 

S D'S  carried  into  effect,  the  very  children  who  are  born  to 

the  privileges  of  citizens  would  be  in  the  same  favorable  state  as 
their  fathers  for  learning  the  qualifications  of  the  candidates,  unless 
they  learned  them  exclusively  through  foreign  organs  of  instruc- 
tion, which  certainly  must  be  admirable  guides  in  all  things  that 
concern  our  intricate  policy. 

A  plan  has  been  brought  before  the  Legislature  of  this  State  for 
altering  the  present  system  of  the  Public  Schools.  It  is  backed  by 
all  the  influence  (much  too  large)  of  the  Governor  and  of  his  min- 
ister the  Secretary  of  State.  As  fortunately  its  discussion  has  been 
postponed  till  the  next  session,  I  shall  take  this  opportunity  to 
prove  the  utter  fallacy  of  the  Secretary's  argument.  I  shall  do 
this  by  merely  taking  up  those  points  of  his  Report  which  have  not 
been  fully  examined  and  overthrown  by  some  of  the  journalists  and 
their  correspondents,  —  among  others,  particularly  by  the  editor  of 
the  JV.  F.  American,  who  has  proved  himself,  on  this  occasion, 
more  the  friend  of  his  country  than  the  supporter  of  a  party  ;  *  (for 
a  journalist,  a  rare  commendation,  which  almost  wipes  out  all  that 
I  have  been  compelled  to  say  of  him  in  the  Vision.) 

Taking  up  the  Secretary's  Report  in  the  order  of  its  parts,  let 
me  first  observe  one  sentence  which  has  rather  connexion  with 
what  has  gone  before  than  with  the  present  note.  Quoting,  out  of 
compliment,  his  principal,  the  Secretary  says  :  "  No  system  is  per- 
fect, nor  can  liberty  be  safe,  until  all  who  are  destined  to  exercise 
the  rights  of  citizenship  are  brought  within  the  schools."  Yet  we 
permit  thousands,  who  have  never  seen  the  inside  of  any  school,  to 
exercise  these  rights  at  their  discretion  !  thousands  too  who  have 
been  reared  under  despotism,  and  whose  souls  have  been  trampled 

*  It  has  given  me  pleasure  to  observe  the  course  which  the  ff.  Y.  American 
has  taken  in  this  matter,  (O  si  sic  omnia  .')  It  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  the  only 
paper  which  has  ventured  to  ascribe  this  plan  to  the  mean  ambition  which 
would  truckle  to  the  religious  bigotry,  and  insolent  presumption  of  a  for- 
eign rabblement,  solely  for  their  suffrages ;  to  a  bigotry  which  is  at  variance 
with  our  political  theory,  and  to  a  presumption  which  betrays  the  contempt 
naturally  felt  by  usurpers  for  those  who  tamely  and  stupidly  surrender  their 
dear-bought  privileges. 


TO  SATAN.  247 

So  that  upon  the  whole,  if  some 

Few  thousands  elsewhere  are  made  better, 

into  mud  by  the  heel  of  oppression  !  This  moreover  is  a  glorious 
inconsistence  for  the  Governor,  who  thinks  with  JEFFERSON,  and 
who  would  extend  the  right  of  suffrage  !  We  now  proceed  with 
Mr.  SP R'S  own  language. 

"  Let  not  error  and  prejudice  be  perpetuated,  by  being  shut  up 
and  excluded  from  the  light  of  science."  Does  the  Secretary  sup- 
pose that  Error  and  Prejudice  will  find  the  doors  and  windows  more 
open  in  the  sectarian  schools  which  he  proposes,  especially  in  those 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  denomination  ? 

"Even  the  moderate  degree  of  religious  instruction  which  the 
Public  School  Society  imparts  must  be  sectarian ;  that  is,  it  must 
favor  one  set  of  opinions  in  opposition  to  another,  or  others  ;  and 
it  is  believed  that  this  will  always  be  the  result,  in  any  course  of 
education  that  the  wit  of  man  can  devise."  This  is  an  unqualified 
misstatement,  founded  in  ignorance,  or  made  without  reflection ; 
and  every  man's  private  experience  will  show  it  to  be  so.  I  was 
brought  up  in  three  different  schools  :  the  first,  where  the  teacher 
was  a  Presbyterian  clergyman ;  the  second,  an  Episcopalian  lay- 
man, under  the  direct  supervision  of  one  of  the  Episcopal  churches 
of  this  city  ;  the  third,  a  Baptist  clergyman.  The  Bible  was  read, 
and  prayers  were  said,  in  all  of  them  ;  but  never  was  a  single  arti- 
cle of  faith,  so  called,  taught  in  any.  Indeed,  had  there  been,  how 
would  one  of  us,  boys  under  fifteen  years  of  age,  have  comprehended 
it?  Does  Columbia  College  make  Episcopalians  of  all  its  students? 
or  do  those  who  are  graduated  by  the  New  York  University  be- 
come therefore  Presbyterians  ?  No ;  the  schools  as  now  established, 
public  as  well  as  private,  teach  nothing  but  natural  religion  and 
simple  Christianity.  This  does  not  content  the  Catholics;  they 
would  teach  doctrines,  impress  upon  the  tender  minds  of  children 
a  hatred  of  all  heresy,  and  a  belief  that  eternal  fire  will  be  the  pun- 
ishment of  those  who  dare  to  think  for  themselves,  that  is,  (for  it  is 
nothing  else,  nor  can  Mr.  SP R  or  Mr.  S D  make  it  other- 
wise,) of  those  who  dare  to  be  in  fact,  as  well  as  name,  American 
citizens. 

..."  The  example  of  a  sister  city,  BOSTON,  where  the  managers 


248  EPISTLE 

Your  Grace  may  gather  from  my  letter 
That  here  twice  ten  times  o'er  that  sum 

of  the  public  schools  are,  and  for  years  have  been,  elective  by  the 
people  in  their  respective  wards,  —  whose  schools  are  equal,  if  not 
superior  to  any  others  in  our  country,  —  furnishes  the  most  effec- 
tual answer  to  any  apprehensions  that  might  be  indulged,  from 
trusting  the  people  with  the  selecting  of  the  agents  to  administer  a 
system  that  so  nearly  concerns  them."  Is  BOSTON  indeed  to  be,  in 
this  case,  paralleled  with  NEW  YORK?  Has  she  too  her  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  emigrant  paupers  ? 

"  In  that  city  [NEW  YORK]  less  than  one  tenth  of  the  population 
are  receiving  the  benefit  of  any  instruction,  while  in  the  interior 
more  than  one  fourth  of  the  whole  population  are  returned  as  being 
in  the  common  schools,  without  any  enumeration  of  those  placed  in 
select  schools.*  The  like  proportion  must  exist  in  the  city  and  in 
the  interior  of  those  who  have  already  received  all  the  education 
they  or  their  parents  desire,  or  who  are  engaged  as  apprentices,  or 
in  other  employments  preventing  them  from  attendance  at  any 
place  of  instruction."  This  is  talking  at  random.  When  the 
Secretary  of  State  shall  prove  that  the  proportion  of  vagabond 
people  is  the  same  in  the  country  that  it  is  in  a  large  city,  and 
that  city  a  seaport  where  thousands  of  pauper  emigrants  arrive 
every  month  from  foreign  parts,  when  he  shall  show  that  even 
the  simple  poor  are  the  same  in  proportion  in  the  interior  of  the 
State,  —  where  few  indeed  are  without  their  little  home  and  home- 
stead, scarcely  any  (if  any,  who  are  AMERICANS)  that  are  subjects 
of  public  charity,  —  the  same  in  proportion  there  as  in  the  great 
city  of  NEW  YORK,  where  whole  streets  are  perfect  dens  of  misery, 
and  where  dozens  of  families  are  piled  together  in  one  small  house, 
filthy,  ragged,  ill-fed,  utterly  regardless  of  any  thing  but  the  beastly 

*  How  true  this  statement,  may  be  gathered  from  a  single  fact  which,  since 
the  above  note  was  written,  has  appeared  in  the  hostile  columns  of  the  State 
journal.  BROOKLYN,  where  the  Common  Schools  are  under  the  very  system 
whose  benefits  the  Governor  would  extend  to  NEW  YORK,  has  less  than  one 
third  of  all  the  children  taught,  while  NEW  YORK  (with  all  her  ragamuffins) 
has  one  half !  BUFFALO,  SCHENECTADY,  UTICA,  TROY,  HUDSON,  and  ALBANY, 
are  quoted  with  nearly  similar  proportions !  So  much  for  the  Secretary's 
interior  places. 


TO   SATAN.  249 

Are  worse,  or  soon  will  so  become. 
Even  now  is  seen  in  fermentation 

enjoyment  of  the  present  moment,  —  if  he  shall  show  this,  we  will 
believe  his  statement ;  but  if  he  can  show  this,  he  will  show  more 
than  we  can  yet  discover,  namely,  that  his  Report  is  disinterested, 
and  that  himself,  and  the  State  Printer,  in  echoing  the  opinions  of 
the  Governor,  are  not  doing  the  work  of  hired  servants  who  flatter 
the  vanity  and  pander  the  passions  of  their  patron. 

"  If  after  all  that  has  been  urged,"  says,  finally,  the  Secretary,  in 
full  confidence  that  he  has  been  talking  good  sense,  "  If  after  all, 
the  apprehension  should  be  indulged  that  any  schools  would  be 
perverted  to  the  purposes  of  a  narrow  and  exclusive  sectarianism 
[sectarism]  during  the  hours  allotted  to  instruction,  instead  of  the 
proper  subjects  of  a  common  school  education,  a  remedy  may  be 
found  by  giving  authority  to  the  board  of  commissioners  to  investi- 
gate complaints  of  such  an  abuse  ;  and,  upon  satisfactory  evidence, 
dissolve  the  offensive  school,  or  withhold  from  it  any  share  in  the 
public  school  moneys."  But,  if  the  commissioners  be  appointed  by 
the  votes  of  the  wards,  they  will  be,  of  course,  fautors  of  Catholi- 
cism, wherever,  as  in  the  sixth  ward,  the  IRISH  are  predominant. 
How  then  are  we  to  get  a  reliable  statement?  In  fine,  to  give  the 
last  brush  to  this  web  of  sophistry,  certainly  the  thinnest  that  was 
ever  spun  from  the  bowels  or  brains  of  a  statesman, —  If  the  IRISH 
want  Catholic  schools,  let  them  pay  for  them,  not  insist  upon  tax- 
ing AMERICANS  and  Protestants  for  the  propagation  of  a  mode  of 
faith  that  is  the  very  antipodes  of  rational  liberty. 

P.  S.  Since  these  remarks  were  written,  the  admirable  Remon- 
strance of  Mr.  H M  K UM  has  been  published  in  the  JV.  Y. 

American,  and  I  find  that  the  matter  is  even  worse  than  I  had  sup- 
posed it,  and  that  there  is  actually  misrepresentation  and  direct 
evasion  in  the  Report  of  the  Secretary.  I  gather  also,  from  the 
same  paper,  that  the  Governor,  in  addition  to  the  wish  of  securing 
the  votes  of  his  Irish  constituents,  had  an  eye  to  the  extension  of 
his  official  patronage.  This  patronage  furthers  his  ambition  and 
enlarges  his  power ;  (and  we  have  seen  that  notwithstanding  the 
efforts  made  by  enlightened  individuals  to  do  away  with  the  Laws 


250  EPISTLE 

The  leaven  of  the  land  of  GRATTAN, 
Mix'd  with  the  mass  of  population 
Of  this  our  island  of  MANHATTAN  : 
And  no  one  dares,  save  me  alone, 
To  wish  your  Highness  joy  thereon,  (i) 
But  I  am  in  no  pleasant  station 

of  Inspection,  laws  which  are  at  once  a  tax  upon  the  people,  a  vio- 
lation of  our  political  principles,  and  a  disgrace  to  common  sense, 
we  have  as  yet  had  no  recommendation  to  repeal  them  from  the 
Executive  branch  of  the  government.) 

Mr.  K UM  concludes  his  able  argument  by  an  eloquent  tribute 

to  the  excellence  of  the  present  system  of  Public  Education,  and 
says,  that  should  it  be  overturned  the  Secretary  of  State  will  have 
a  renown  which  will  last  through  ages,  but  a  renown  to  which  he, 
for  his  part,  would  prefer  that  of  the  destroyer  of  the  temple  of 
EPHESUS.  I  shall  lend  my  feeble  aid  to  prevent  the  Secretary  from 
enjoying  this  consummation  of  glory ;  but  if,  after  all,  power  and 
official  patronage  should  prevail  over  right,  I  promise  the  Secretary 
such  a  reputation  as  shall  last  for  a  few  generations  at  least ;  and 
the  Governor  shall  share  it  with  him.  My  country  shall  not,  while 
I  live,  see  any  of  her  lovely  edifices  fired,  without  the  world's 
knowing  who  applied  the  torch,  and  who  they  were  durst  light  it. 

(i)  The  manner  in  which  the  press  notices  the  insolence  and  in- 
subordination, and  even  the  crimes  of  our  adopted  citizens,  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  paragraph,  which,  one  of  a  hundred,  I 
take  because  it  is  the  newest : 

"MORE  RIOTING  AT  HARLEM.  —  We  regret  to  learn,  that  a  new 
manifestation  of  the  old  Fardown  and  Corkonian  feud  has  been  made  by 
the  Emerald  Island  laborers  on  the  Croton  water  works,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  HARLEM  ;  and  it  is  said  that  some  of  the  contractors  have 
come  in  for  a  share  of  trouble,  in  consequence  of  having  discharged 
divers  of  the  rioters.  On  Saturday  night,  the  house  of  one,  named 
M'Ginnis,  was  threatened,  and  indeed  attacked,  and  would  have  been 
destroyed,  but  for  the  timely  arrival  of  the  police.  It  is  said  too,  that 
the  house  of  another  contractor  was  set  fire  to,  a  few  days  since,  and 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  burning.  We  fear  that  Father  MATTHEW  has 


TO  SATAN.  251 

I  wish  to  keep,  like  W M  S D, 

Nor  dread  my  bark  should  fall  to  leeward, 
Like  your  viceroys  the  Corporation  ; 
Nor  do  I,  like  heroic  W — BB, 
Fear  to  be  stranded  by  the  ebb 
Of  an  Hibernian  approbation,  (l) 
My  windows  and  my  fences  too, 
Though  fragile,  shall  no  wise  prevent 
The  compliments  which,  as  your  due, 
I  take  upon  me  to  present, 
On  this,  which  I  suppose  to  be, 
The  solemn  anniversary 
Number'd  by  5,  8,  45, 
Of  your  ascension,  or  descent, 
To  the  bright  throne  you  occupy 
Much  to  the  learned  trades'  content, — 
Who  would,  I  think,  not  see  laid  by 
The  sceptre  by  whose  rule  they  thrive  ; 
The  seven-thousandth  of  your  great 
Departure  from  the  realms  of  grace 
To  found  a  more  convenient  state 


but  few  converts  and  followers  among  these  turbulent  knights  of  the 
shovel  and  pickaxe." 

And  it  is  in  this  tone  of  pleasantry  that  a  serious  infraction  of 
good  order,  and  an  offence  considered  by  our  laws  highly  criminal, 
are  spoken  of  when  committed  by  foreigners.  I  would  that  I  were 
Mayor  for  a  day  or  two  !  I  would  do  more  than  send  a  purse  of 
sequins  home  to  my  mother. 

(i)  No  one  will  be  surprised  that  the  editor  of  the  Courier  should 
be  among  the  most  ardent  abettors  of  the  threatened  ruin  of  the 
Common  Schools.  Who  needs  be  told  which  way  the  bitted  hack- 
ney will  turn  ?  It  is  the  way  the  rein  is  jerked  that  guides  him. 


252  EPISTLE 

In  a  less  eligible  place  ; 
And  the  ten-millionth,  since  the  day 
Your  Majesty  was  singing  psalms 
In  the  blue  concert-room,  where  PETER 
Takes  the  Pope's  tickets,  Romans  say, 
But  ne'er  admits  for  ready  pay, 
That  lyre  betwixt  your  royal  palms 
Which  the  great  connaisseur  RUBETA 
(Who,  being  himself  of  royal  birth  (i), 
By  instinct  knows  all  royal  things, 
As  well  in  Heaven  as  here  on  earth) 
Declares  to  be  the  lyre  of  kings.  (2) 

All  other  things  which,  heretofore, 
Have  wak'd  such  ecstasy  in  HELL, 
Are  much  the  same  ;  and  on  that  score 
I  therefore  have  scant  news  to  tell  : 
The  selfsame  perjury  in  courts  ;  (3) 

(1)  See  the  account  of  his  origin,  as  given  in  the  Fourth  Canto 
of  the  Vision. 

(2)  "  Another  lyre  is  broken.     The  hand  that  played  it  with  ex- 
ceeding cunning  will  sweep  its  strings  no  more.     It  may,  indeed, 
even  now  be  playing  upon  a  more  ROYAL  instrument,  in  a  brighter 
sphere,  —  but  its  music  is  no  more  heard  on  earth."    Biogr.  Notice 
of  HILLHOUSE.     Comm.  Adv.  Jan.  15,  1841. 

(3)  I  would  I  could  foresee  when  that  worse  than  mockery,  which 
goes  by   the  name   of  swearing,   will  be  abolished   in   courts  of 
justice.     Men  are  daily  made  to  blaspheme   their  Maker  for  the 
value  of  sixpence.     A  written  affirmation,  with  the  signature  or 
mark  of  the  affirmer,  which  affirmation,  if  false,  should  subject 
the  party  making  it  to  the  penalties  that  are  now  pretended  to  be 
exacted  for  perjury,  would  be  a  more  deliberate  act,  and  therefore 
an  act  more  directed  by  the  conscience,  than  the  present  sacrile- 


TO   SATAN.  253 

The  same  success  to  bronze  and  gold  ; 

And  still  the  jurymen  report 

Precisely  in  the  terms  they  're  told  ; 

The  judges  giving  them  direction, 

That,  if  they  dare  to  disobey, 

Their  consciences  will  need  correction, 

And  you,  the  Devil,  will  be  to  pay  ; 

The  which,  I  think,  must  make  you  smile, 

If  you  take  cognizance  the  while. 

And  still  your  coadjutor,  ST — E, 

Finds  justice  made  for  men  alone,  —  (i) 

gious  mummery,  which,  in  not  one  case  out  of  a  thousand,  conveys 
a  single  thought  of  responsibility  or  the  least  idea  of  solemnity  to 
him  who  is  made  to  perform  it.  I  speak  what  is  known  to  every 
lawyer,  and  to  all  judges  ;  I  may  say,  to  any  observer. 

(i)  It  is  now  a  common  case  for  jurymen  to  violate  their  oaths, 
because  they  are  opposed  to  capital  punishment.  Yet  their  business 
is  not  with  the  sentence  of  the  court,  but  is  simply  to  determine 
the  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  party  criminated.  But  can  we  won- 
der at  this  perjury,  this  mockery  of  law  and  justice,  when  we  find 
the  guides  of  public  opinion  setting  the  example,  through  ignorance, 
dulness, hypocrisy,  and  self-interest?  In  the  Commercial  Advertiser 
of  May  20,  1841 ,  we  have  these  editorial  paragraphs : 

"A  WOMAN  SENTENCED  TO  DEATH. —  Mrs.  Sarah  Ann  Davis,  con- 
victed at  Philadelphia  of  the  murder  of  Juliana  Jordan,  was  brought 
into  Court  yesterday  morning  for  sentence.  Etc.  etc. 

"  It  is  not  supposed  that  she  will  be  executed,  and  most  fervently  do 
we  hope  that  she  may  not.  Opposed  as  we  are  getting  to  be  to  all 
judicial  taking  of  life,  we  cannot  without  shuddering  contemplate  the 
idea  of  a  woman  perishing  upon  the  gallows."  Etc. 

"  Opposed  "  as  we  actually  are  "  to  all  judicial  taking  of  life," 

we  trust  "  that  she  may  "  be  hung  ;  and  if  there  be  any  choice  in 

gallowses,  that  she  may  have  the  highest.    Law  is  law.   Have  none 

but  merciful  laws,  if  you  can;  and,  above  all,  abolish  the  barbarous 

22 


254  EPISTLE 

Yet  for  their  sake  the  law  divides. 

And  thinks  it  right  to  plead  both  sides,  (i) 

and  inefficient  punishment  of  death  ;  but  whatever  laws  you  do 
have,  execute  them  always,  or  they  will  be  brought  into  contempt. 
While  the  punishment  for  murder  is  hanging,  let  the  convicted  be 
hung  in  all  cases.  As  for  this  wretched  cant,  of  the  horror  of  hang- 
ing a  woman,  simply  because  she  is  a  woman, —  did  this  sentimental 
hypocrite  ever  think  of  "  shuddering  "  at  "  the  idea  of  a  woman  "  'a 
committing  murder  ?  If,  of  homicides,  we  hang  the  male,  who  is 
more  violent  by  nature,  and  by  custom,  and  whose  whole  life  tends 
to  harden  the  heart  and  to  make  him  indifferent  to  bloodshed,  why 
should  we  spare  the  female,  whose  nature  and  habits,  the  entire 
associations  of  whose  existence  should  make  her  revolt  from  mur- 
der as  from  an  act  too  horrible  to  be  even  imagined  ?  Could  the 
law  allow  of  degrees  of  punishment  for  the  same  offence,  a  woman 
should  suffer  doubly  ;  and,  were  there  none  else  to  execute  the  law 
upon  her,  I  would,  rather  than  it  should  be  neglected,  fasten  the 
rope  myself.  But  /  have  not  made  myself  dependent  on  the  pat- 
ronage of  families,  where  females  have  a  voice  and  vote  ;  nor  do  I 
think  it  exactly  necessary  to  secure  the  favor  of  the  sex  by  pamper- 
ing its  exclusive  vanity,  and  by  pretending  for  it  a  reverence  which 
it  does  not  deserve,  and  which  Mr.  S — E  feels  still  less  than  I  do, 
—  because  by  his  nature  he  cannot  love  it  half  so  well.  We  have 
seen  other  editors  use  the  same  fulsome  adulation  of  women,  and 
for  the  same  reason ;  and  I  presume  that  for  public  lecturers,  news- 
men, and  small  poets,  it  is  not  without  its  fruits. 

..."  Pour  vous  corriger  en  tout, 

Mes  enfans,  consultez  les  dames ; 

Voila  le  tribunal  du  gout."  (VADE.  Le  Rien,  iv.) 
(i)  In  attempting  to  justify  a  lawyer  of  this  city,  who,  after  hav- 
ing been  appointed  U.  S.  Attorney  for  the  Northern  District  of 
NEW  YORK,  had  continued  to  act  as  counsel  for  the  Canadian 
M'LEOD,  accused  of  the  assassination  of  an  American  citizen,  the 
Commercial  Advertiser  holds  this  flippant,  indecent,  immoral,  and 
most  silly  language,  which  the  reader  will  perceive  is  the  exact 


TO  SATAN.  255 

But  should  it  vex  you,  that  child-murder 
Is  not  so  public  as  before, 
Though  LOHMAN'S  gentle  call  is  o'er, 
Yet  have  not  all  our  virgins  heard  her, 
With  others,  for  two  years  and  more  ?  (i) 

pendant  of  the  paragraph  about  Senators  and  Bank-stocks  quoted 
on  p.  292  of  the  Vision  .- 

"  The  Government  is  the  client  of  the  attorney  or  counsellor,  nothing 
more  or  less,  and  it  stands  upon  the  footing  of  every  other  client,  who 
gives  a  general  retainer  for  the  management  of  all  his  business.  Now 
suppose  Mr.  J— N  J— B  A— R  [S— E  hopes  to  be  remembered  in  Mr. 

J— N  J— B'S  will]  to  give  Mr.  S R  a  general  retainer  to  manage  all 

his  legal  business.    Would  this  preclude  Mr.  S R  from  conducting 

to  their  final  termination  all  cases  in  which  he  had  been  previously 
employed  against  Mr.  A — R  ?  Certainly  not  [!!]  ;  he  had  engaged  to 
perform  a  duty  to  one  client,  before  the  other  retained  him,  and  that 
client's  cause  he  is  bound  in  honor  and  in  law  to  conduct  to  its  final 
termination,  and  retainers  subsequently  received  are  taken  subject  to 
this  acknowledged  duty."  C.  A.  May  22,  1841. 

Did  it  occur  to  the  Commercial  Advertiser  to  ask  itself  the  ques- 
tion, what  right  a  man  who  is  engaged  already  on  one  side  has, 
"  in  honor  and  in  law,"  to  receive  a  fee  to  undertake  the  cause  of 
the  opposite  party  ?  or,  how  the  lawyer  is  to  find  so  convenient  a 
conscience, as  to  do  his  utmost  to  pull  down  a  man  on  one  side,  and 
then  build  him  up  again  on  the  other,  being  paid  for  both  offices  ? 
Or  does  the  Commercial  Advertiser  find  the  ready  answer  for  all 
such  questions  in  its  own  conscience  and  its  own  pockets  ? 

Such,  my  fellow-citizens,  are  the  men  you  permit  to  teach  you 
principles  of  public  and  private  conduct !  Such  the  ignorance 
which  pretends  to  instruct  you,  and  the  morality  which  is  your 
guide  ! 

(i)  After  this  woman,  with  several  other  persons  of  both  sexes 
had  been  regularly  advertising  in  more  than  one  of  the  city  papers, 
for  the  time  above  stated,  she  was  brought  to  the  bar  of  justice  to 
answer  for  the  consequences  of  her  crime.  Was  it  necessary  to 
wait  till  murder  had  been  actually  committed,  in  order  to  indict 


256  EPISTLE 

Thanks  to  your  children  of  the  Press, 
She  and  the  clerks  of  FRACASTOR  (i) 
Will  never  make  your  realm  the  less, 
If  thither  goes  ....     I  '11  not  write  *****; 
For  that  is  now  a  word  unfit 
For  polish'd  tongue  and  ears  refin'd, 
In  naked  satire  only  writ, 
And  in  delivery  confin'd 
To  one  black-liver'd  Moorish  fellow 
Who  chokes  his  lady  with  a  pillow. 
(As  ST — E  declares  you  tread  the  scene, 
Your  Majesty  knows  whom  I  mean.) 

I  say,  assisted  by  the  journals, 
So  many  now  pursue  the  game,  (2) 

her  ?  Is  there  no  law  that  will  reach  those  who  advertise  to  do  the 
act?  and  those  who  publish  such  advertisements,  which,  with  cer- 
tain others  (still  suffered  to  remain)  have  been  poisoning  the  souls 
of  the  poorer  classes  of  women  in  this  city,  so  long  and  so  effec- 
tually ? 

(1)  GIROLAMO  FRACASTORO,  a  noble  VERONESE  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  is  the  author,  among  other  works,  of  a  didactic  poem  en- 
titled  Syphilis,  which  the  Italian  critics   hesitate   not  to  compare 
with  the  most  perfected  work  of  VIRGIL'S,  to  wit,  the  Georgics, 
finding  in  it  the  severity  of  LUCRETIUS  united  with   the  delicacy 
of  MARO.     From  my  own  knowledge  1  cannot  speak  of  it,  though 
I  possess  a  copy  in  the  famous  Italian  version  of  BENINI. 

(2)  It  is  impossible  not  to  observe  the  rapid   increase  of  vice  in 
the  female  portion  of  this  metropolis.     The  cheapness  with  which 
luxurious  articles  of  dress  may  be  purchased,  and  the  false  notion 
that  our  political  equality  has  levelled  all  social  distinctions,  which 
induces  the  grisette  and  the  servingmaid  to  ape  the  outward  show 
of  the  rich  and  the  idle,  these  circumstances,  in  addition  to  the 
absolute  freedom  which  is  permitted  them  by  their  parents,  have 


TO  SATAN.  257 

Avoiding  only  public  shame, 

That  I  should  think  that  the  Infernals 

Would  be  at  length  compell'd  to  pass  them, 

Or  else  with  better  women  class  them. 

This  do  their  fathers  and  their  brothers, 

Their  uncles,  aunts,  perhaps  their  mothers  ; 

And  the  poor  spouse,  whose  mantle  covers 

The  fingerings  of  a  hundred  lovers, 

Believes  himself  a  happy  fellow, 

And  is,  if  rightly  thinks  OTHELLO  (i). 

Lo  !  when  the  twilight's  rosy  heaven 

To  all  things  round  Love's  hue  has  given, 

The  seamstress  with  enticing  mien, 

The  bloom  and  graces  of  sixteen, 

Minces  along  the  crowded  streets, 

And  leers  on  every  fop  she  meets. 

And  now,  one,  readier  than  the  rest, 

Has  follow'd,  join'd  her  and  addrest. 

At  first  she  listens  with  disdain, 

Or  answers  in  the  heroic  vein, 

But  soon  assumes  a  tone  more  bland 

And  cares  not  to  withdraw  her  hand. 

Then  her  young  lip  receives  his  kiss, 

And  every  thing  she  has  is  his. 

no  doubt  some  share  in  producing  this  corruption,  but  it  is  chiefly 
owing  to  the  dissemination  of  newspapers,  where  on  one  side  the 
description  and  record  of  vice  entices  to  the  evil,  which  the  other 
side  disarms  of  all  its  terrors  by  the  promise  of  a  perfect  and  an 
easy  impunity. 

(i)     "  He  that  is  robb'd,  not  knowing  what  is  stolen, 

Let  him  not  know  it,  and  he  's  not  robb'd  at  all,"  etc. 

Othello,  iii.  3. 
22* 


258  EPISTLE 

Home  goes  the  maid,  with  look  demure, 
As  though  she  nurs'd  no  thoughts  impure, — 
Sees  on  her  sire  her  lover's  head, 
And  hears  his  voice  while  prayers  are  said. 
No  fears  her  modest  breast  alarm  ; 
The  Press  her  guarantee  from  harm. 
There  against  one  mishap  she  's  mail'd  ; 
And  for  the  rest,  kind  LOHMAN  's  bail'd. 

But  soft !  we  are  too  young  by  far 
To  be  what  *****  protests  we  are. 
When  last  your  Grace  was  in  a  pew, 
You  heard  what  was  not  strictly  true,  (i) 

(i)  One  of  cur  clergymen,  of  much  repute  for  eloquence,  chose 
in  his  sermon  on  the  Death  of  the  President,  to  brand  us,  the  peo- 
ple of  this  country,  as  the  most  immoral  people  in  the  world. 

What  did  the  Reverend  Doctor  mean  by  this  superlative  ?  Are 
there  more  murders  committed  in  this  country  than  in  IRELAND  ? 
Is  there  more  adultery  than  in  ENGLAND  ?  more  "  simple  fornica- 
tion" than  in  SCOTLAND  ?  Are  FRENCHMEN  less  given  to  gaming 
and  to  wenching  ?  SPANIARDS  to  highway  robbery  ?  ITALIANS  to 
sodomy  ?  GERMANS  to  gluttony  and  winebibbing  ?  Are  there  fewer 
bastards  in  DENMARK?  Is  there  more  sobriety  in  SWEDEN  and  in 
LAPLAND  ?  greater  chastity  in  RUSSIA  and  in  HOLLAND  ?  less  politi- 
cal convulsion  in  SWITZERLAND  ?  less  treachery,  filth,  and  supersti- 
tion in  PORTUGAL  ?  better  Sabbath-keeping  in  BELGIUM  ?  Do  tru- 
ant children  have  their  bottoms  flagellated  with  greater  edification  to 
their  cerebral  faculties  in  the  public  schools  of  PRUSSIA  than  in  ours? 
In  a  word,  is  there  less  of  vice,  of  folly,  and  of  ignorance  in  any 
part  of  Christian  EUROPE  than  with  us  ?  Nay,  to  confine  ourselves 
to  a  single  kingdom:  — The  Doctor  spoke  of  our  papers  as  filled 
with  accounts  of  murders,  etc.,  etc.  Did  he  ever  read  the  English 
journals  while  he  was  in  ENGLAND  ?  Are  there  not  in  their  columns 
more  horrors,  more  bestialities,  —  crimes  that  we  dare  not  even 


TO   SATAN.  259 

For,  on  my  soul,  which  shall  not  fall 
To  you  as  long  as  it  is  mine, 

name  here,  and  which  I  verily  believe  have  never  been  thought  of 
in  this  less  sophisticated  region,  —  than  offend  the  eye  in  those  of 
ours  ?  Perhaps  they  are  made  up  by  the  accident-makers  ?  per- 
haps they  are  exaggeration  ?  Indeed  !  Have  we  no  accident- 
makers  ?  Is  lying,  as  a  trade,  the  monopoly  of  English  newsmen  ? 
Besides,  did  the  Reverend  gentleman  ever  take  notice,  that  of  the 
murders,  riots,  housebreaking,  pilfering,  and  the  like,  recorded 
here,  nine  tenths  of  the  cases  are  decorated  with  the  euphoni- 
ous patronymics  of  the  land  of  bogs,  or  are  distinguished  by  the 
moral  national  designations  of  Englishman,  German,  and  so  on? 
And  if  he  talks  of  people  in  high  place,  as  I  understand  he  did, 
was  the  collector  of  NEW  YORK  a  person  of  higher  station,  or  in 
better  estimation  than  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  ENGLAND  ?  Mr. 
S S ,  a  man  of  more  refinement  than  the  Right  Hon- 
orable FRANCIS  BACON,  Baron  Verulam,  and  Viscount  St.  Allans? 
Put  it  in  the  power  of  men  to  do  wrong,  and  they  will  do  wrong 
everywhere.*  It  was  the  administrations  of  General  JACKSON  and 
Mr.  VAN  BUREN  that  made  defaulters ;  and  it  was  the  venality  of 
the  English  Court  of  Chancery  that  made  a  rogue  of  The  wisest, 
greatest,  meanest  of  mankind:  and  as  there  are  fewer  chances  given 
to  fraud,  and  less  temptation  held  out  to  villany  of  every  kind,  in 
this  world  than  in  the  old,  we  are  necessarily  better.  Why,  one 
beast  like  GEORGE  IV.,  one  fool  and  bigot  like  his  father,  will,  at 
the  head  of  a  government,  breed  more  evil  than  five  hundred  from 
among  its  subordinates.  Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  cant  from  the 
pulpit ;  but,  if  we  must  talk  of  our  people  there,  say  what  is  a 

*  In  a  degree  proportional  to  that  of  the  laxity  of  their  principles,  or  of  the 
strength  of  their  passions.    Lord  BACON  would  have  been  a  cringing  courtier, 

and  an  ungrateful  sycophant  in  any  court ;  and  Collector  S must  have 

always  been  unscrupulous :  but  they  would  neither  have  plunged  into  such 
a  depth  of  degradation,  had  they  not  been  impelled  by  circumstances  which 
favored  and  tempted  dishonesty.  We  are  told  too  that  we  do  not  punish 
public  offences  in  this  country.  After  a  brief  imprisonment  in  the  Tower,  the 
Chancellor  had  the  rest  of  his  sentence  remitted,  and  was  pensioned  with 

£  1800.    Mr.  S will  not  be  rewarded  if  he  come  within  the  grasp  of  the 

U.  S.  Courts. 


260  EPISTLE 

We  are  as  yet,  despite  of  all 

The  cant  of  tourist  and  divine, 

As  stainless  as  the  driven  snows, 

Compard  with  what  the  Old  World  shows. 

But,  with  the  tide  of  emigration 

That  every  honest  man  deplores, 

Which  floods  us  with  a  population 

The  washings  of  the  Old  World's  shores  ; 

And  with  the  law  once  pass'd,  to  free 

Misconduct,  fraud,  and  villany, 

From  the  few  bars  that  yet  restrain  them  ;(i) 

God's  truth  ;  that  we  are  destined  one  day,  by  the  blessing  of 
newspapers  and  steampackets,  to  become  as  rotten  at  the  core  as 
GREAT  BRITAIN,  FRANCE,  and  IRELAND,  but  that  at  present  we 
are  only  specked  and  wormeaten  at  the  blossom-end,  and  have  the 
mortification  to  know  ourselves  otherwise  sound  and  fragrant. 

I  do  not  object  to  a  clergyman's  stigmatizing  us  as  wicked.  We 
are  so ;  and  it  is  his  vocation  to  let  us  know  it,  and  to  try  to  effect 
by  the  terror  of  "  penal  fire  "  what  the  satirist  endeavours  to  bring 
about  by  the  dread  of  ridicule  and  public  odium.  But  let  him  keep 
to  the  windward  of  Truth,  nor  forget  that  there  is  a  positive  and  a 
comparative  state  known  to  grammar,  as  well  as  a  superlative. 

(i)  The  Bankrupt  Act  now  in  contemplation,  and  called  for  by 
all  the  voices  of  the  Press.  Surely  no  greater  encouragement 
could  be  extended  to  fraud  or  to  misconduct  than  an  act  which  en- 
titles a  man,  by  throwing  up  the  small  remains  of  property  which 
his  rashness  or  dishonesty  have  left,  to  be  clear  of  all  responsibility 
and  to  begin  a  new  score  ;  that  is,  if  he  can  find  any  one  to  trust 
him ;  but  the  effect  of  such  a  law  will  be  to  destroy  credit  almost 
altogether  for  persons  of  character  not  established,  and  to  render  it 
difficult  to  be  obtained  even  by  better  men.  And  this  is  the  only 
reparation  which  I  see  for  a  manifest  injustice,  and  the  only  cure 
for  a  rank  evil.  With  credit  as  easy  as  it  has  been,  the  wildest 
speculations  would  be  entered  into,  and  no  check  put  upon  a  spirit 


TO   SATAN.  261 

And  with  the  rights  we  call  our  own 

To  all  mankind  so  freely  thrown, 

That  EUROPE'S  gallows-birds  may  gain  them  ; 

With  all  these  precious  aids  together, 

I  put  it  to  your  Highness  whether 

We  shall  one  day  discredit  HELL  ? 

And  with  such  hope  of  our  damnation 
To  glad  you,  and  the  observation 
That  to  my  long  epistle  I 
By  no  means  look  for  your  reply, 
I  leave  your  Grace.     And  so,  farewell. 

Postscript.     The  bearer  of  this  letter 
Perhaps  will  be,  for  want  of  better, 
The  captain  of  a  public  journal, 
And  hence  will  merit  your  regard. 
I,  therefore,  pray  your  Grace  Infernal 
That,  for  my  sake,  you  will  reward 
The  fellow  to  his  heart's  desire 
With  plenty  of  your  bluest  fire. 
He  always  in  this  life  affected 
A  love  of  brimstone  and  saltpetre  : 
A  double  quantity  directed 
May  gratify  and  keep  him  sweeter. 
And,  to  encourage  all  such  souls, 
Add  a  peck  more  or  two  of  coals. 

which  has  already  done  so  much  mischief,  a  spirit  in  itself  im- 
proper and  fraught  with  danger  to  the  morals  of  the  people. 


SONNETS. 


SONNETS. 


THE  REPROACH  OF    VENUS. 

THE  Queen  of  Rapture  hover'd  o'er  my  bed, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Silence  and  the  Night  : 
She  touch'd  with  hers  my  glowing  lips  and  said, 
While  my  blood  tingled  with  the  keen  delight, 

"  And  is  the  spirit  of  thy  youth  then  fled, 
That  made  thee  joy  in  other  themes  more  bright  ? 
For  satire  only  must  thine  ink  be  shed, 
And  none  but  boys  and  fools  my  praises  write  ?  " 

"O,  by  these  swimming  eyes,"  I  said,  and  sigh'd, 
"And  by  this  pulse,  which  feels  and  fears  thine  art, 
Thou  knowest,  enchantress,  and  thou  seest  with  pride, 

Thou  of  my  being  art  the  dearest  part  ! 
Let  those  sing  love  to  whom  love  is  deny'd  ; 
But  I,  O  queen,  I  chant  thee  in  rny  heart." 


523 


266  SONJMETS. 


II. 
THE  PILGRIMS  FOR  LOVE. 

"O  PERJUR'D  man,"  said  IRIS,  loudly  weeping, 
c£  Where  is  the  ring  I  put  upon  that  hand  ? 
Thou  said'st  the  Sun  himself  and  Moon  should  stand 
Heels  uppermost,  ere  it  should  leave  thy  keeping. 

Didst  think,  false  wretch,  that  IRIS'  eyes  were  sleeping  • 
Begone  !     I  '11  take  me  to  some  foreign  land  ; 
There  hide  my  neck,  and  with  the  vestal  band 
Conceal  these  locks  which  now  my  tears  are  steeping.' 

"  Stay  !  let  us  wend  together,  pilgrims  both  : 
I  '11  be  thy  friar,  and  gird  me  with  a  cable  ; 
For,  weeks  ago,  I  saw  my  pledge  of  troth, 

To  IRIS  given,  upon  my  cousin's  table  : 
And  what  is  more,  the  rascal  took  his  oath, 
That  seven  more  men  had  found  thee  quite  as  stable  !  " 


SONNETS.  267 


III. 


ALLEGORIA.     COLLE  DIFFICOLT!  SE  NE  VA  LA  MAGGIOR  DOLCEZZA 
D'  AMORE. 

A  PASSI  lenti,  con  amara  pena, 
Salsi  un  aspro  monte  di  grande  altura  ; 
Non  m'  impedi  ne  balzo,  ne  fessura, 
Ne  '1  sol'  ardente,  ne  affannata  lena  : 

Del  bel  vedere  anticipate  piena 
L'  alma  era,  e  '1  disio  vinse  la  paura  ; 
E  quando  al  fin,  compita  la  via  dura, 
Miro  abbasso,  il  mio  gaudio  non  si  frena. 

Come  il  lampo  e  ogni  diletto  mortale  : 
Sparisce,  e  poi  la  nebbia  par  piu  Spessa. 
Giunto  al  sommo  la  fatica  m*  assale, 

E  il  pensier  del  calo  1'  alma  mi  oppressa  ; 
Che,  fatta  1'  opra,  aperse  speme  1'  ale  ; 
E  sempre  fugge  Volutta  con  essa. 


268  SONNETS. 


IV. 
THE  PRAYER. 

O,  THAT  some  spirit,  mov'd  by  my  entreating, 
Would  give  my  LAURA  power  to  discover 
The  rapture  of  this  heart,  when  near  her  beating, 
And  how  in  every  pulse  I  am  her  lover  ! 

Then  would  kind  thoughts  of  me  be  never  fleeting, 
But  present  still,  before,  around,  above  her  ; 
And  when  the  night's  lone  hour  forbade  our  meeting. 
In  vivid  dreams  of  joy  about  her  hover. 

Ah  fool  !  that  thou  shouldst  pray  for  thy  undoing, 
And  thy  own  liberty  thyself  surrender  ! 
For  't  is  alone  that  they  may  keep  us  wooing, 

When  women's  pride  permits  them  to  be  tender. 
From  knowing  that  thou  canst  not  help  thy  cooing, 
Whatever  her  disdain,  pray  Heaven  defend  her  ! 


SONNETS. 


V. 
THE   RINGLET. 

NOT  for  itself  this  little  lock  I  prize, 
Though  its  bright  threads  thy  own  soft  fingers  plaited  ; 
Once  seen  and  own'd,  my  longing  is  abated  ; 
Albeit  the  color  well  contents  my  eyes  : 

I  am  no  Corydon,  that  hugs  with  sighs 
Some  bauble  of  his  Phyllis'  gift,  unsated, 
And  overjoy 'd  ;  with  me  this  ringlet  's  rated 
Precisely  by  the  worth  that  in  it  lies. 

Thou,  SYBIL,  conscious  that  this  little  part 
Of  thy  sweet  self  is  with  me,  wilt  believe 
Thy  image  more  than  ever  fills  my  heart  ; 

And  thus  imprest,  thy  vanity  must  weave 
A  web  around  thee,  subtle  though  thou  art  ; 
And  I,  in  turn,  shall  have  thee  at  my  sleeve. 


270  SONNETS. 


VI. 

THE  LOVER'S  HEAVEN. 

SOFT  was  the  night,  no  sound  the  stillness  breaking 
Like  man,  the  lake,  the  woods  appear'd  to  sleep  ; 
The  watchdog's  distant  bay,  prolong'd  and  deep, 
No  more  the  echo  of  the  hills  was  waking  : 

Then  ALICE  and  myself,  our  homes  forsaking, 
Stole  out  beneath  the  moon,  Love's  watch  to  keep  ; 
Nor  fail'd  the  influence  of  the  hour  to  creep 
On  both,  both  taciturn  and  pensive  making. 

But,  turning  down  her  lucid  orbs  from  heaven, 
My  soul's  sweet  life  gaz'd  on  me  with  surprise  : 
"  And  canst  thou  hope,"  she  ask'd, ."  to  be  forgiven, 

That  hast  no  admiration  for  these  skies  ?  " 
"  To  plead,"  I  said,  "  neglect,  I  am  not  driven, 
The  moon  and  heaven  adoring  in  those  eyes." 


EPIGRAMS 


EPIGRAMS. 


I. 

THE   PREFERENCE. 

OF  two  fair  daughters,  both  her  boast, 

CAMDIA  loves  the  elder  most. 

Yet  every  one,  except  the  mother, 

Esteems  as  best  by  far  the  other. 

Abroad  no  beauty  with  her  vies, 

'  The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes  '; 

All  rival  banners  near  her  furl'd, 

She  gathers  round  her  all  the  world. 

Ah,  there  it  is  !   The  minx  !  confound  her  ! 

She  gathers  all  the  world  around  her. 


II. 

EUTHANASIA. 

EXPIRING,  EUTHANASIA  lies, — 

Yet  while  the  breath  of  life  still  lingers, 


274  EPIGRAMS. 

On  sleek  MACHAON  turns  her  eyes, 

Who  holds  her  wrist  between  his  fingers  : 

"  Doctor  ".  .  the  dying  lady  sighs. 

"Dear  madam  !  say  what  your  command  is  ! 

With  her  last  breath,  she  low  replies, 

"  O  dear  !  how  very  white  your  hand  is  !  " 


III. 
THE   PRUDE. 

GROWN  old,  pure  MELINDROSA  prays, 
And  fain  would  keep  her  friends  from  sliding. 
Experience  qualifies  for  guiding  ; 
She  knows  the  evil  of  her  ways. 


IV. 

'•> 

A  VIRGIN. 

RUTH  boasts  her  virtue  unassail'd  : 
She  's  kept  the  path  where  most  have  fail'd. 
Who  'd  said  she  'd  not,  had  sore  bely'd  her  ; 
For,  God  knows,  no  man  ever  try'd  her. 


EPIGRAMS.  275 


V. 


TO  H Y  W H  L-GF W, 

ON  READING  IN  THE  JV.  Y.  American  A  PANEGYRIC  OF  HIS  POEMS. 

O  L — GF w,  thy  Voices  of  the  Night 

Shall  long,  true  Philomels,  in  Harvard  sing  ; 
For  K — G  has  heard  their  murmurs  with  delight  ; 
And  everybody  knows  the  taste  of  K — G. 


VI. 
TO  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

Go  on  !  in  face  of  all  thy  peers 

Who  've  writ  for  twice  nine-hundred  years, 

Damn  VIRGIL,  and,  with  painful  sneers, 

Revile  the  shade  of  POPE  : 
^Esop  the  dirty  cause  shall  teach  ;  — 
The  fox  the  grapes  he  could  not  reach 
Despis'd,  and  thou  dost  wit  impeach 

Wherewith  thou  canst  not  cope. 


276  EPIGRAMS. 


VII. 

TO  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH, 
OK  HIS  WILFUL  MISREPRESENTATION  OF  CERTAIN  GREAT  POETS. 


IF  to  the  punishment  for  lies 

Each  conscious  slanderer,  when  he  dies, 

Must  go  without  exemption, 
I  fear,  though  of  a  loftier  sort, 
With  S — E,  and  other  rogues  in  short, 

Thou  'rt  damn'd  beyond  redemption. 


THOU  'rt  aged,  WILLIAM.     O  repent  ! 
Give  to  thy  struggling  conscience  vent, 

To  soothe,  when  dead,  the  Omniscient. 
Here,  among  men,  thou  need'st  no  curse  ; 
POPE'S  self  would  swear  thy  own  bad  verse 

Is  punishment  sufficient. 


VIII. 

TO  MESSRS.  SOUTHEY  AND  WORDSWORTH, 
ON  THEIR  DEFAMATION  OF  CERTAIN  GREAT  NAMES  IN  POETR* 

WHEN  ZOILUS  the  mighty  bard  revil'd 
Whose  fame  he  hated,  he  was  ston'd  or  burn'd  ; 


EPIGRAMS.'  277 

But  that  was  all  ;  the  sheets  his  spleen  defil'd 

Live  not  to  prove  how  well  the  doom  was  earn'd. 

You,  Zoi'luses  both,  a  harder  fate 

Must  undergo  ;  for,  printed  on  your  page, 

Your  envy  will  survive  its  proper  date, 

And  crucify  (i)  you  in  a  future  age. 


IX. 
PHILANTHROPY. 

PRETTY  SALLY  's  wondrous  fair,  — 
To  all  mankind  a  charming  creature  ; 
So  soft  her  voice,  so  free  her  air, 
Gentle  in  manners,  speech,  and  feature  ; 
Her  humor  and  her  dimples  tally. 
No  special  smiles,  no  graces  rare  ; 
Alike  to  all  she  graceful  bends  her, 
And,  should  none  better  claim  her  care, 
Leers  on  the  footboy  that  attends  her, 
And  spreads  her  charms  to  catch  a  valet. 
A  common  case  ;  why  should  you  stare  ? 
A  man  's  a  man  to  pretty  SALLY. 

(i)  Some  say  that  the  unfortunate  grammarian  was  nailed  to  a 
cross,  by  order  of  PTOLEMY. 


278  EPIGRAMS. 


X. 

THE  DEMAGOGUE. 

CLEON  magnanimously  fights 

For  what  he  calls  the  people's  rights, 

Ready  in  any  mud  to  dabble, 

To  help  across  the  sovereign  rabble. 

CLEON  is  right  ;  for  CLEON  }s  of  them. 

CLEON  is  made  a  man  of  note  ; 

And  CLEON  sings  another  note, 

Talks  of  the  honor  of  the  Crown, 

And  damns  the  people  up  and  down. 

Lord  CLEON  's  right  :  he  ranks  above  them. 


XI. 
THE  PANEGYRIST. 

SOFT  VAPPA  sings  of  birds  and  bees, 
And  bubbling  brooks,  and  flowers,  and  trees 
And  KA  proclaims  him  greater  even 
Than  HOMER  and  the  Bard  of  Heaven. 
Wouldst  know  the  reason  ?     Seek  it  here  : 
KA  publishes,  himself,  next  year. 


EPIGRAMS.  279 


XII. 
TO  A  FLIRT. 

WEAK,  silly  creature  !  worthless  jade  ! 
In  vain  are  all  thy  charms  display 'd, 
Thou  needlessly  thy  wits  art  tasking  ; 
Since  all  is  equal  game  to  thee, 
Enough,  —  fling  not  thyself  at  me  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  for  the  asking. 


XIII. 
TO  A  COQUETTE. 

THINK'ST  thou,  because  one  fool  admires, 
The  world  an  equal  passion  fires  ? 
I  would  not  for  the  world  deny  it. 
But  if  thou  wouldst  the  truth  discover, 
Treat  all  just  as  thou  treat'st  thy  lover. 
If  they,  the  world,  all  put  together, 
Will  bear  to  be  thus  toss'd  and  shaken 
By  all  thy  fits  of  changeful  weather, 
Why  then  —  I  'm  damnably  mistaken. 
I  would  to  God  thou  'dst  only  try  it  ! 


280  EPIGRAMS. 


XIV.(i) 
TO  A   MANNIKIN. 

THOU  four-foot  fool  !  short  thing  of  lath  ! 
Begone.     Crawl  safely  from  my  path. 
'T  were  right  to  strip  thee  of  thy  breeches 
But  then  the  proverb  tells  what  pitch  is. 


XV. 

TO  J S   W N  W— BB. 

FOOL  !  that  durst  let  thy  hireling  cross  my  path  !  (2) 
Was  't  not  enough  I  spar'd  thee  on  my  page  ? 

(1)  This  epigram,  written  many  years  since,  was  printed  in  the 
additions  to  the  Vision  of  Rubeta.     It  is  here  republished  because 
of  an  absurd  mistake  which  was  there  committed  ;  the  substitution 
of  swiftly  for  safely  in  the  second  line  of  the  copy. 

(2)  One  of  the  publishers  of  the  Vision,  Mr.  J N,  who  claims 

to  be  a  cousin  of  Mr.  W — BB'S,  informed  my  agent  that  the  editor 
of  the  Courier  was  not  in  town  when  that  miserable  specimen  of 
mendacity  and  ignorance  (see  the  last  page  of  this  volume)  was 
suffered  to  make  its  appearance  in  his  paper.     But  he  allowed  it  to 
remain  uncontradicted ;  and  thus  endorsed  the  falsehood.    To  me 
the  injury  this  has  done  can  be  but  transient;  the  exposition  I  have 
made  of  the  iniquity  will  be  eternal.     I  do  such  men  too  much 
honor,  I  am  well  aware,  to  notice  them  in  any  way;  but  it  must 


EPIGRAMS.  281 

Hadst  thou  no  fears  my  full-avenging  wrath 
Would  send  thee  down  the  scorn  of  every  age  ? 

be  remembered,  that  it  is  their  power  over  the  people  which  com- 
pels me  to  the  degradation,  not  themselves.  The  subjects  of 
PHARAOH  bowed  the  knee  to  a  puppy  ;  but  it  was  the  religion  rep- 
resented by  the  quadruped,  not  the  bestial  symbol  itself  that  they 

worshipped.     Were  ten  such  creatures  as  W— BB,  S E,  and 

S T,  to  be  kneaded  into  one  mass,  the  mass  were  still  too  in- 
significant for  notice ;  but  seated  in  the  tribunal  of  the  Press,  with 
power  of  life  and  death  upon  an  author's  reputation,  I  must  needs 
regard  it,  though  it  were  ten  times  more  beastly  than  all  the  besti- 
alities of  EGYPT. 

P.  S.    Since  this  epigram  and  note  were  written,  I  have  had 
reason,  in  the  ungrateful  and  disgustingly  dishonest  conduct  of 

Messrs.  W — KS,  J N,  and  Co.,  to  believe  that  the  second  person 

of  that  firm  was  guilty  of  a  falsehood  as  little  as  himself,  and  that 
Mr.  W — BB  alone  was  probably  the  author  of  that  disgraceful  para- 
graph, not  Mr.  S T.  Should  my  suspicion  prove  correct,  and 

I  will  find  means  to  bring  the  truth  to  light,  I  shall  owe  to  Mr. 

S T  a  reparation  the  highest  I  can  offer  him :  I   will  ask  his 

pardon  as  publicly  as  I  have  given  the  offence.  My  countrymen 
may  rest  contented,  if  they  please,  with  the  reproach  under  which 
they  labor  with  all  foreigners,  that  of  not  daring  to  speak  their  indi- 
vidual opinions  when  they  may  happen  to  conflict  with  those  of  the 
majority,  or  of  their  masters,  the  conductors  of  the  public  press ; 
but  while  there  shall  be  left  to  me  a  limb  of  this  body,  and  the  soul 
that  now  animates  it,  there  shall  be  at  least  one  man  in  AMERICA 
whom  no  consideration,  either  personal  or  moral,  shall  prevent  from 
speaking  the  truth  of  all  persons  and  on  all  occasions,  where  pro- 
priety shall  demand  it.  Should  it  cost  me  my  life,  I  will  lay  this 
down  too,  as  I  have  already  sacrificed  my  temporal  prosperity,  an 
unreluctant  offering  at  the  altar  of  that  divinity  whose  majesty  I 
have  worshipped  from  my  childhood,  and  who  has  hitherto  reward- 
ed my  devotion,  as  the  celestial  powers  are  said  to  visit  those  whose 
actions  please  them,  with  worldly  castigation  and  abasement. 

24* 


EPIGRAMS. 


Look  back  upon  thy  life.    How  well  !.  .  .   But  no  ! 
Vent  thy  foul  spleen  on  COOPER  ;  let  thy  tool 
Still  work  thy  dirty  ends  ;   I  let  thee  go, 
Content,  contemptuous,  thus,  to  brand  thee,  Fool ! 


XVI. 
PRUDENCE. 

AT  forty,  IRIS,  crook'd  and  pale, 
Would  have  her  pretty  niece  more  sage. 
Her  conduct  puts  her  in  a  rage  ! 
She  looks  as  though  she  were  for  sale  ! 

"Make  me  your  pattern  ;  I  '11  engage," 
Quoth  she,  "  the  fellows  shall  turn  tail  ; 
No  man  dares  ever  lift  my  veil  ; 
And  I  have  more  than  twice  your  age." 


XVII. 
LA  MEME   EN   FRANCAIS.  (i) 

A  QUARANTE  ans  jaune  et  difforme,  IRIS 

Reprend  sa  niece  de  1'  hommage 
Qu'attirent  le  beau  teint  de  son  visage, 
Ses  yeux  fripons,  et  son  joyeux  devis. 

(i)  Perhaps  it  will  be  permitted  me  to  remind  the  general  reader, 
that  in  French  the  final  e  which  is  mute  in  prose  is  sounded  in 


EPIGRAMS.  283 

"  Quoi  !  veux-tu  done,"  dit-elle,  "  mettre  a  prix 
La  rose,  le  bouton  de  ton  vert  pucelage  ? 
Tous  ces  discours  flatteurs,  ces  doux  souris 

Devraient  te  donner  de  1'ombrage. 
Imite-moi,  ma  fille,  je  te  dis  ; 
Tu  peux  te  bien  garder  de  cet  outrage. 
Nul  homme  ne  m'  appelle  une  ange,  ou  sa  Cypris, 
Et  j'ai  le  double  de  ton  age." 


XVIII. 

TO  THE  "POETS  OF  AMERICA,  EDITED  BY  J— N  K— E."(i) 
I. 

BARDS,  some  two  dozen,  Folly's  latest  seed  ! 
That  I  have  not  conferr'd  on  you  your  due, 
Forgive  me.     If  it  is  too  much  indeed 
To  spell  ten  lines,  how  should  I  read  you  through  ? 

verse  when  the  next  word  begins  with  a  consonant.  Thus  in  the 
second  line  of  the  epigram  above,  ni&ce  is  of  two  syllables,  not  of 
one  as  in  prose.  The  e  is  also  counted  in  the  termination  ent ;  and 
in  the  next  line  attirent  is  of  three  syllables.  Devraient,  however, 
in  the  eighth  line,  is  by  a  peculiarity  of  the  language  but  of  two. 
—  I  should  not  have  thought  of  giving  this  lesson,  had  I  not  heard 
in  FRANCE  persons  of  tolerable  education  read  their  native  poets 
without  the  least  attention  to  these  rules,  and  had  not  my  own 
French  teacher  in  this  city  permitted  them  to  be  disregarded  by 
all  his  pupils.  I  therefore  have  a  right  to  suppose  that  many  per- 
sons may  be  conversant  with  the  French  language  who  are  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  laws  that  regulate  the  structure  of  French  verses, 
(i)  I  need  not  say  that  there  are  some  exceptions  in  this  book  to 
the  character  I  give  of  it.  The  name  of  B — T,  for  example,  is  to  be 


284  EPIGRAMS. 


II. 


ENOUGH  (and  no  small  merit  't  is,  I  trust,) 
That  I  have  pass'd  through  St — e  and  yet  survive 
J — N  K — E  may  tickle  all  your  St — es,  and  thrive 
I  would  not  die  outright  of  mere  disgust. 


XIX. 

CONSOLATION  TO  ONE  WHO  WAS  NOT  NOTICED  IN  THE  VISION. 

ROUSE  not,  dear  Ollapod,  thy  spite, 

Nor  think  to  move  my  brain  to  battle  ; 

For,  know,  I  should  be  puzzled  quite 

To  cross  my  rapier  on  thy  rattle. 

If  then  I  have  not  given  to  light 

Thy  ragged  verse  and  tittle-tattle, 

With  W — BB'S  cheap  cant(i),  and  "soaps  of  Camus  "(2), 

'T  is  that  I  would  not  make  thee  famous.  (3) 

found  in  the  catalogue  of  its  Poets  ;  and  wherever  that  occurs,  we 
may  be  sure  there  is  reason,  though  it  were  surrounded  by  folly, 
and  that  poetry  may  be  gathered  from  the  heap  of  rhyme. 

(1)  In  the  additional  matter  to  Canto  IV.,  which  appeared  in  the 

second  issue  (4th  edition,  as  Col.  S and  brotherhood  would 

call  it)  of  the  Vision. 

(2)  "  And  sees  his  privy  ills,  like  verse,  made  famous, 

With  Saponaceous  Cream,  and  Soaps  of  Camus." 

Vis.  of  R.  i. 

(s)  The  subject  of  this  epigram  is  now  dead.  But  as  there  is 
nothing  in  the  piece  which  could  have  been  answered  in  any  other 
way  than  by  the  pen,  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  called  upon  to  sup- 
press it.  —  Mr.  C.  (Ollapod)  was  one  of  the  persons  to  whom  the 


EPIGRAMS.  285 


XX. 

ON  A   ZEALOUS   HYPOCRITE. 

WONDER  not should  pray 

With  zeal  as  hot  as  if  Hell  drave  him  : 
He  mocks  not  GOD,  nor  means  to  brave  him, 
But,  being  modest  in  his  way, 
Trusts  at  the  fire-and-brimstone  day 
His  insignificance  will  save  him. 


XXI. 

ON  THE  NAME  GIVEN  TO  THE  HERO  OF  THE  Vision. 

RUBETA  means,  you  say,  a  toad 
That  makes  in  hedges  his  abode. 
But  here  a  creature  is  exprest 
That  lodges  in  the  human  breast  ; 
The  man's  own  evil  soul  ;  in  short 
A  moral  toad  :  but  of  what  sort  ? 
Sort  ?     None  ;   the  reptile  stands  alone. 
It  is  the  toad  that  lives  in  Stone. 

publishers  of  the  Vision  had  the  effrontery  to  send  a  copy  with  the 
respects  of  the  author. 


286  EPIGRAMS. 

XXII. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  NEWSMAN'S  WATERCLOSET. 
I. 

IN  the  bank  of  this  closet 
Lies  the  soul  of  an  editor. 

It  lies  in  deposite  ; 
For  the  Devil  is  creditor. 

II. 

HERE  safely  to  hold  it, 
Lest  the  owner  should  job  it. 

The  bond  when  he  sold  it 
Made  the  payment  post-obit. 

XXIII. 
EPITAPH. 

UNDER  this  marble,  safe,  not  sound, 
Sixty  inches  beneath  the  ground, 
Rotteth  what,  to  most  men's  thinking, 
Rotten  was  in  life  and  stinking. 
There  the  type,  but  here  the  essence  ; 
Body  both  and  soul's  putrescence. 
If  the  spirit,  once  departed, 
Ere  look  back  to  whence  it  started, 
Much  indeed  't  must  be  delighted, 
Seeing  things,  which,  when  united, 


EPIGRAMS.  287 

Had  no  sympathy  betwixt  them, 
Now,  that  Nature  has  unmixt  them, 
In  their  essences  harmonious  ; 
That  which  made  the  eye,  erroneous, 
Often  doubt  the  soul's  putridity, 
Now  in  physical  corruption, 
Better'd  by  this  late  disruption, 
Floating  in  a  black  humidity. 

"  What  its  name  ?  by  whom  begotten,  — 
If  of  man  a  thing  so  rotten  ?  " 
Ask  the  Devil,  who  may  know  it ; 
Men  the  ordure  have  forgotten, 
And  this  marble  may  not  show  it. 
He  (thus  much)  whose  soul  eternal 
Revels  now  in  filth  infernal, 
While  the  corpse,  in  shape  most  suiting, 
Fats  the  soil  it  is  polluting, 
Edited  in  life  a  journal. 


XXIV. 

To  A  FAIR  NEIGHBOUR,  RETIRING  FOR  THE  NIGHT. 

CLOSE  not  the  shutters  ;   prithee  stay  ! 

But  one  more  charm,  one  more  uncover  ! 

Each  bit  of  dress  aside  you  lay 

Falls  a  new  chain  on  me,  your  lover. 

They  ope.     Sweet  saint  !     Ah,  see  !  they  close. 

What  ails  the  prude  this  coyness  keeping  ? 

Hush,  fool  ;  the  little  vixen  knows 

Your  fancy  's  kinder  than  your  peeping. 


288  EPIGRAMS. 


XXV. 
MADRIGALE. 

Lo  STESSO  ARGOMENTO  DEL  SONETTO  III. 

I'  PIANSI  la  mia  sorte,  il  rio  tormento 
Che  mi  soffrir  facea  la  bella  CLORI. 
Ma  sempre  aumentavan  i  miei  amori, 
Come  i  flutti  dal  impeto  del  vento. 
CLORI  e  donna  ;  si  vinta  arrese  jeri. 
Lasso  me,  ch'  io,  sperando  esser  contento, 
Ho  persi,  in  un  momento, 
Con  quella  pena  tutti  i  miei  piaceri ! 


XXVI. 
MADRIGAL. 

"  SWEET  innocent,  thy  dark-blue  eyes 
Are  like  the  maid's  I  dearest  prize. 
Come,  little  image  of  CALISTA  !  " 
And  leaning  o'er  the  babe,  I  kiss'd  her. 

She  stretch'd  her  arms  to  me,  and  smil'd, 
Pouting  her  lips  for  more,  the  child  ! 
"  Ah,  jade,  you  '11  be  just  like  your  sister  !  " 
And  then,  —  and  then  !  ten  times  I  kiss'd  her. 


PARODIES    OF    HORACE. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


I  INTENDED  that  these  Parodies  should  embrace  at  least  one  ex- 
ample of  every  lyric  measure  in  Horace ;  but  the  unexpected  bulk 
of  the  volume  obliges  me  to  confine  my  specimens  to  the  present 
number,  while  the  rate  at  which  the  work  is  now  going  through 
the  press,  and  the  quantity  of  matter  I  have  yet  to  write,  deprive 
me  of  the  chance  of  substituting  for  some  of  the  Sapphic  odes  other 
odes  that  would  more  vary  the  selection. 

The  ridicule  with  which  the  imitation  of  ancient  metres  has  been 
visited  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  the  imitation  been 
properly  conducted.  It  is  the  absurdity  of  the  poet  that  is  ridicu- 
lous, the  ill  success  of  his  effort,  not  the  effort  itself.  Thus,  when 
Mr.  SOUTHEV  wrote, 

"  Cold  was  the  night  wind,  drifting  fast  the  snow  fell, 
Wide  were  the  downs  and  shelterless  and  naked, 
When  a  poor  wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey, 

Weary  and  way-sore," 

he  wrote  well ;  nor  could  twice  the  wit  of  CANNING  make  us  look 
upon  this  single  stanza  with  contempt.  On  the  contrary  the  meas- 
ure (i),  it  appears  to  me,  is  exquisitely  sweet,  and  the  absence  of 

(1)  The  substitution,  in  the  third  place,  of  an  amphibrach  (~'~)  for  a  dactyl 
('«  ~  ),  thus  :  wind,  drifting,  —  is  a  necessity  in  English  for  all  who  write  the 
Sapphic  measure.  It  in  no  wise  injures  the  rythm ;  and  for  the  quantity  of  the 
syllable,  it  is  in  fact  the  same.  Every  prosodian  knows  that,  if  you  except 
perhaps  the  hexameter,  there  is  scarcely  an  ancient  measure  which  is  not 
varied  by  similar  licenses. 


292  ADVERTISEMENT 

rhyme  is  fairly  supplied  by  the  music  of  the  numbers  :  but  when 
the  poet  goes  on  to  tell  us, 

"  Then  on  the  snow  she  laid  her  down  to  rest  her; 

She  heard  a  horseman  ;  Pity  me,  she  groan'd  out. 

Loud  was  the  wind,  unheard  was  her  complaining; 

On  went  the  horseman," 

it  is  impossible  to  refrain  from  laughter ;  for  the  second  line  is  only 
verse  by  an  arbitrary  and  unnatural  disposition  of  the  emphasis ; 
nor,  had  the  poet  designed  to  burlesque  the  very  measure  he  was 
writing  in,  could  he  have  done  it  more  effectually  than  by  either 
hemistich  of  that  line  :  She  heard  a  horseman  —  Pity  me,  she  groan'd 
out. 
Again,  in  Mr.  SODTHEY'S  "  Dactylics  ",  we  have, 

"  Cold  is  the  baby,  that  hangs  at  thy  bending  back  " ; 
where  the  stress  of  the  voice  is,  in  the  last  foot,  forced  by  the 
rythm  upon  the  participle,  on  which  it  would  not  fall  by  any  other 
disposition  of  the  clause,  and  makes  the  line  ludicrous  at  once. 

For  these  Parodies,  I  would  observe  to  the  prosodian,  that  the 
music  of  the  original  measure  has  been  of  course  more  regarded 
than  the  prescribed  feet.  Hence,  besides  applying  to  an  imitation 
of  Horace  the  metrical  varieties  found  in  other  ancient  poets  who 
have  used  similar  measures,  I  have  occasionally  in  a  metre  as- 
sumed a  license  of  my  own ;  but  it  is  always,  I  trust,  such  as  in  a 
like  case  the  classic  poet  might  himself  have  sanctioned.  That 
is  to  say,  the  metrical  time  is  invariably  the  same,  and  if  the  mu- 
sical accentuation  be  not  always  strictly  in  correspondence  with 
that  of  the  parent  bar  or  measure,  yet  the  key  of  the  metre,  so  to 
speak,  is  never  forgotten.  He  who  studies  attentively  the  prosody 
of  the  ancients  will  find  no  real  difference  therein,  as  I  have  before 
asserted,  frorrr-the.  laws  which  regulate  the  versification  of  the 
moderns.  Verse,  like  music,  is  a  single  science,  belonging  to  all 
nations ;  and  like  music,  it  might  well  have  notes  which  should 
express  the  same  relations  everywhere,  however  one  people  might 
read  them  by  alphabetic  characters  and  another  by  monosyllabic 
sounds.  The  same  varieties  and  the  same  licenses,  in  verse,  were 
of  old  adopted  that  prevail  now;  for  they  then  arose,  as  they  now 


OF  THE   PARODIES.  293 

arise,  from  the  dictates  of  taste  and  harmony,  or  had  their  origin, 
as  they  have  it  still,  in  the  exigences  of  the  composer. 

I  may  add,  that  in  my  parodies  I  have  usually  mimicked  the 
peculiarities  of  style  in  the  Roman  lyric ;  and  these  are  not  always 
excellences.  Further,  that  the  parodies  were  composed  for  the 
sake  of  exhibiting  the  metres,  not  the  metres  adopted  to  accommo- 
date the  parodies. 


2.V 


HORATII    CARMINA. 


LIB.   I.  32. 
AD   LYRAM. 

POSCIMUR.     Si  quid  vacui  sub  umbra 
Lusimus  tecum,  quod  et  hunc  in  annum 
Vivat,  et  plures,  age  die  Latinum, 
Barbite,  carmen, 

Lesbio  primum  modulate  civi  ; 
Q,ui,  ferox  bello,  tamen  inter  arma, 
Sive  jactatam  religarat  udo 
Littore  navim, 

Liberum  et  Musas,  Veneramque  et  illi 
Semper  haerentem  Puerum,  canebat, 
Et  Lycum  nigris  oculis  nigroque 
Crine  decorum. 

O  decus  Phrebi,  et  dapibus  supremi 
Grata  testudo  Jovis,  o  laborum 
Dulce  lenimen,  mihi  cumque  salve 
Rite  vocanti. 


PARODIES    OF    HORACE. 


ODE   I. 
TO   THE   LUTE. 

SPITE  of  false  tongues,  if  in  MANHATTAN'S  Babel 
We  have  taught  thy  chords  aught  that  may  a  twelvemonth 
Live  in  gentle  hearts,  come,  and  now  to  English 
Lend  thy  soft  music, 

Lute  whose  Lesbian  tone  perfected  the  ROMAN, 
Who,  though  graver  notes  could  his  hand  awaken, 
Yet,  when  forgot  his  satire's  bland  derision, 
Laughing  malignly, 

Sung  the  light  joys  that  sparkle  in  the  winecup, 
And  the  keen  bliss  that  makes  earth  all  but  Heaven, 
And  the  veil'd  fires  of  GLYCERA'S  quick  glances, 
Wantonly  scornful. 

Glory  of  MOORE,  O  lute  that  polish'd  CAMPBELL 
Made  (though  too  rarely)  resonant  of  rapture, 
Pride  of  the  lonely  spirit,  while  I  touch  thee 
Sweet  be  the  descant  ! 


296  HORACE 

LIB.  I.   1. 
AD  RLECENATEM. 

M^CENAS,  atavis  edite  regibus, 
O  et  presidium,  et  dulce  decus  meum,  — 
Sunt  quos  curriculo  pulverem  Olympicum 
Collegisse  juvat,  metaque  feividis 
Evitata  rotis,  palmaque  nobilis 
Terrarum  dominos  evehit  ad  Decs. 
Hunc,  si  mobilium  turba  Quiritium 
Certat  tergeminis  tollere  honoribus  ; 
Ilium,  si  proprio  condidit  horreo 
Q,uidquid  de  Libycis  verritur  areis. 
Gaudentem  patrios  findere  sarculo 
Agros  Attalicis  conditionibus 
Nunquam  dimoveas,  ut  trabe  Cypria 
Myrtoum  pavidus  nauta  secet  mare. 
Luctantem  Icariis  fluctibus  Africum 
Mercator  metuens  otium  et  oppidi 
Laudat  rura  sui  :  mox  reficit  rates 
Quassas,  indocilis  pauperiem  pati. 
Est  qui  nee  veteris  pocula  Massici, 
Nee  partem  solido  demere  de  die 
Spernit,  nunc  viridi  membra  sub  arbuto 
Stratus,  nunc  ad  aquae  lene  caput  sacrse. 
Multos  castra  juvant,  et  lituo  tubae 
Permistus  sonitus,  bellaque  matribus 


PARODIED.  297 

ODE    II. 
TO   SYBIL. 

SYBIL,  sweet  scion  of  lowly  progenitors, 
Source  of  my  shame,  my  delight,  and  disquietude,  — 
There  are  who  the  dust  of  Broadway  in  midsummer 
Joy  to  have  stirr'd  with  the  orbs  of  a  curricle, 
Rais'd  in  their  thoughts  to  the  glory  of  PHAETON, 
When,  graz'd  without  clashing  the  hub  of  some  tilbury, 
Cheer'd  with  huzzas  by  the  round-caps  at  Tattersall's  (l). 
This,  when  the  voice  of  the  fickle-brain'd  rabblement 
Sends  him,  for  cringing,  to  fool  them  at  ALBANY  ; 
That,  has  he  stor'd  in  the  lofts  of  his  granary 
All  that  is  fann'd  on  the  floors  of  green  MICHIGAN. 
Whose  pride  is  the  hoe,  and  field  of  his  heritage, 
Ne'er  would  you  move  him,  by  wealth  like  J — N  J — B'S,  to 
Double  the  Cape  in  the  tallest  East-Indiaman. 
Merchants,  while  dreaming  the  jaws  of  the  hurricane 
Howl  for  their  prey  off  the  shoals  of  Cape  Hatteras, 
Sigh  as  they  think  of  a  farm  at  MANHATTANVILLE  : 
Soon  they  recruit,  and,  secure  in  their  policies, 
Give  to  the  devil  content  and  a  competence. 
There  are  who  despise  not  draughts  of  bright  Burgundy, 
Nor  scorn  to  spend  idly  some  portion  of  sunshine, 
Stretch'd  now  at  ease  'neath  the  shade  of  a  sycamore, 
Now  by  the  marge  of  some  pebble-pav'd  rivulet. 
Many  the  war-trump,  and  the  cannon's  red  thunder 

(i)  Broadway  has  its  place  of  this  name ;  set  up,  I  suppose,  by 
some  ENGLISHMAN. 


298  HORACE 

Detestata.     Manet  sub  Jove  frigido 
Venator,  tenerae  conjugis  immemor, 
Seu  visa  est  catulis  cerva  fidelibus, 
Seu  rupit  teretes  Marsus  aper  plagas. 
Me  doctarum  hederae  prsemia  frontium 
Dis  miscent  superis  ;  me  gelidum  nemus, 
Nympharumque  leves  cum  Satyris  chori 
Secernunt  populo  ;  si  neque  tibias 
EUTERPE  cohibet,  nee  POLYHYMNIA. 
Lesboum  refugit  tendere  barbiton  : 
Quod  si  me  lyricis  vatibus  inseres, 
Sublimi  feriam  sidera  vertice. 


LIB.   I.   38. 


AD  MIN1STRUM. 


PERSICOS  odi,  puer,  apparatus  ; 
Displicent  nexae  philyra  coronae  : 
Mitte  sectari  rosa  quo  locorum 
Sera  moretur. 

Simplici  myrto  nihil  adlabores 
Sedulus  cura  ;  neque  te  ministrum 
Dedecet  myrtus,  neque  me  sub  arcta 
Vite  bibentem. 


PARODIED.  299 

Delight,  and  the  widowing  slaughter  of  battle. 
The  hunter  remains  'neath  the  chill  sky  of  autumn, 
Nor  thinks  on  the  kiss  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom, 
His  hounds  having  scented  the  slot  of  the  red-deer, 
Or  frighted  the  bear  from  her  young  in  the  forest. 
Me  the  green  leaves  which  I  hope  to  see  garlanded 
Part  from  the  populace  ;  me  beauty's  witchery, 
Shadowy  groves,  and  the  stars  of  the  firmament, 
Lift  to  the  skies  in  the  joy  of  my  fantasy  ; 
Blest  above  men  should  I  flourish  in  poesy, 
Blest  even  now  in  Love's  visions  angelical  : 
But  if  thou  'It  yield  me  thy  heart  as  thy  kisses,  I  '11 
Envy  not  MOORE,  nor  his  houries  to  MAHOMET. 


ODE    III. 
TO  THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD,  ESQ., 

OR  TO 

ANY  ONE  OF  SOME  FIFTY  POETS,  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN,  MALE 
AND  FEMALE. 

PRITHEE,  forsake  this  oriental  bombast  ; 
Tropes,  child,  disgust  one,  twin'd  in  such  profusion : 
Nor  for  true  splendor  rummage  in  the  twinkling 
Tail  of  a  glowworm. 

Wreathe,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  harp  ;  but  though  of  roses, 
Be  the  wreath  simple  ;  not  as  that  of  WORDSWORTH  ; 
Shun  such  extreme,  and  fly  with  equal  horror 
Epics  like  SOUTHEY'S. 


300  HORACE 

LIB.   I.   5. 
AD  PYRRHAM. 

Quis  multa  gracilis  le  puer  in  rosa 
Perfusus  liquidis  urget  odoribus 

Grato,  PYRRHA,  sub  antro  ? 
Cui  flavam  religas  comam, 

Simplex  munditiis  ?     Heu,  quoties  fidem 
Mutatosque  decs  flebit,  et  aspera 

Nigris  aequora  ventis 
Emirabitur  insolens, 

Qui  nunc  te  fruitur  credulus  aurea, 
Qui  semper  vacuam,  semper  amabilem 

Sperat,  nescius  aurae 
Fallacis  !     Miseri  quibus 

Intentata  nites.     Me  tabula  sacer 
Votiva  paries  indicat  uvida 
Suspendisse  potenti 
Vestimenta  maris  deo. 

(i)  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  in  Peter  Bell.  As  Mr.  WORDSWORTH  is 
at  the  head  of  the  prosaic  school,  and  is  the  fittest  example  of  the 
pedestris  sermo,  of  English  verse,  so  may  SHELLEY'S  wilderness  of 
flowers  be  considered  to  represent  the  other  extreme ;  the  would-be 
judges  of  modern  poetry  being  enamoured  of  the  vulgarity,  child- 
ishness, and  insipidity  of  the  former  style,  whether  spread  over  the 
barren  common  of  Mr.  WORDSWORTH'S  verses,  or  elsewhere,  while 
the  people,  and  their  directors,  the  magazines  and  newspapers. 


PARODIED.  301 

ODE-IV. 
TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

WHAT  shallow  youth,  at  the  bottom  of  Helicon, 
Larded  with  metaphors,  hid  beneath  epithets. 

Courts  now,  rhyming,  thy  favor  ? 
Which  way  does  thy  fancy  waver, 

Barren  in  judgment  ?     How  often  thy  fickleness 
Will  he  deplore,  and  his  stars,  and,  poor  innocent  ! 

Stare  at  thy  coldness,  meeting 
Nothing  of  warmth  in  thy  greeting, 

Who  with  thy  blandishments  feeds  his  credulity, 
Hoping  one  day  to  grow  fat  on  thy  graciousness, 

Unconscious  thy  tongue's  election 
Had  never  a  brain's  direction. 

Wo,  where  it  falls  overvalu'd  !     My  verses,  which 
Waltz  not  like  SHELLEY'S,  nor  trudge  with  the  Wagoner(l], 

Show  thee  what  estimation 
I  put  on  thy  approbation. 

equally  love  to  lose  themselves  in  the  mazes  of  the  latter.  Yet  was 
SHELLEY,  be  it  observed,  the  author  of  the  Cenci,  which,  if  you  ex- 
cept the  blemish  of  the  Song  in  Act  V.,  has,  as  an  English  tragedy, 
no  modern  rival  in  dramatic  diction,  and  I  know  not  whether  in 
any  other  of  the  dramatic  requisites ;  and  the  same  gave  to  the 
world  the  drama  of  Prometheus  Unbound,  which,  less  faultless  in 
style,  especially  towards  the  close,  is  as  a  whole  a  work  of  extra- 


302  HORACE 


LIB.   I.   22. 
AD  ARISTIUM  FUSCUM. 

INTEGER  vitse,  scelerisque  purus, 
Non  eget  MAURI  jaculis,  neque  arcu, 
Nee  venenatis  gravida  sagittis, 
FUSCE,  pharetra  ; 

Sive  per  Syrtes  iter  sestuosa&T 
Sive  facturus  per  inhospitalem 
Caucasum,  vel  quoe  loca  fabulosus 
Lambit  Hydaspes. 

Namque  me  silva  lupus  in  Sabina, 
Dum  meam  canto  LALAGEN,  et  ultra 
Terminum  curis  vagor  expeditus, 
Fugit  inermem  : 

Q,uale  portentum  neque  militaris 
DAUNIA  in  latis  alit  sesculetis, 
Nee  JUEJE  tellus  generat,  leonum 
Arida  nutrix. 

ordinary  genius  and  of  exceeding  beauty,  opening  with  a  sub- 
limity that  almost  makes  us  think  we  are  reading  .ffischylus.  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH  has  not  the  faults  of  SHELLEY,  proceeding  from  an 
over-luxuriance  of  imagination,  disdaining  rule ;  and  he  may  be 
read  throughout  with  more  patience,  as,  though  not  unfrequently 
far  from  perspicuous,  his  tame  prosaic  language  does  not  bewilder 
the  brain,  or  cloy  with  profusion  of  sweets  the  intellectual  palate  ; 
but  he  has  never  \vritten  any  thing  that  may  be  compared  for  ex- 


PARODIED.  303 

ODE    V. 
TO  ANYBODY. 

HE  that  acts  wisely,  wronging  nothing  living, 
Needs  not  the  pistol  of  W — BB,  nor  the  rifle, 
Nor  the  broad-bladed  dagger  of  the  Southron, 
Nam'd  after  BOWIE  ; 

Though  through  the  wilds  of  FLORIDA  he  journey, 
Or  on  the  desert  billows  of  the  Prairies, 
Or  where  his  deep  tide  rolls  the  Mississippi, 
Father  of  waters. 

For  in  the  groves  of  S NS  at  HOBOKEN, 

While  on  a  rock  I  meditate  my  CHLORIS, 
A  dog  H — LE  himself  had  driven  from  his  house-door, 
Fled  me,  though  caneless  : 

Such  a  huge  beast  as  never  yet  NEWFOUNDLAND 
Litter'd  in  fogs,  nor  yet  the  Great  St.  Bernard, 
Where  unceasing  winter  heaps  round  the  Hospice 
Snows  never  melted. 

cellence  with  either  the  Cenci  or  Prometheus,  while  the  former  of 
these  dramas  is  singly  worth  the  whole  of  Mr.  WORDSWORTH'S 
works,  all  put  together.  "  Of  the  two  extremes/'  says  POPE,  "  one 
would  rather  pardon  phrenzy  than  frigidity."  SHAKSPEARE  and 
DRYDEN  both  abound  in  extravagancies,  and  have  quite  as  much, 
in  quantity,  of  bombast  as  of  sublimity  ;  but  who  would  look  in 
either  of  those  immortal  poets  for  examples  of  the  frigid  in  writing? 
SWIFT  drew  his  from  one  Sir  Richard  Blackmore. 


304  HORACE 

Pone  me  pigris  ubi  nulla  campis 
Arbor  sestiva  recreatur  aura, 
Quod  latus  mundi  nebulae,  malusque 
Jupiter  urguet  ; 

Pone  sub  curru  nimium  propinqui 
Soils,  in  terra  domibus  negata, 
Dulce  ridentem  LALAGEN  amabo, 
Dulce  loquentem. 


LIB.   I.  26. 
AD   HELIUM   LAMIAM. 

Musis  amicus,  tristitiam  et  metus 
Tradam  protervis  in  mare  Creticum 
Portare  ventis,  queis  sub  Arcto 
Rex  gelidse  metuatur  orae, 

Quid  Tiridatern  terreat,  unice 
Securus.     O  quae  fontibus  integris 
Gaudes,  apricos  necte  flores, 
Necte  meo  Lamise  coronam, 

(i)  An  ode  from  Horace  is  dedicated  with  peculiar  propriety  to 
Professor  A N,  who  has  lately  given  his  labors  as  a  commen- 
tator to  the  illustration  of  this  favorite  classic.  His  edition  of 
the  great  lyrical  and  moral  poet  I  have  not  seen  ;  but  I  can  easily 
conjecture  what  must  be  its  value,  coining,  as  it  does,  from  the 


PARODIED.  305 

Place  me  in  the  Alpine  barrens  of  the  reindeer, 
Where  the  swart  carl  sleeps  naked  'neath  his  sheepskin, 
Shines  not  the  sun  for  weeks,  and  Heaven's  thunder 
Rolls  in  midwinter  ; 

Place  me  in  sands  where  pants  the  long-breath'd  camel, 
Where  for  whole  days  no  shrub  is  seen  nor  fountain, 
Still  will  I  love  my  CHLORIS'  spoken  music, 
And  her  laugh's  dimples. 


ODE   VI. 

TO   CH S  A N.(.) 

To  song  now  wedded,  doubt  and  disquietude 
I  give  to  brood  o'er  commerce  and  politics, 
At  ease  though  fall  the  southern  staple, 
Careless  what  favorite  of  the  people 

The  White  House  shelters,  so  that  the  Eagle  still 
His  pennons  droop  not.     Muse  that  delightest  in 
Founts  undefil'd,  twine  sunny  flowers, 
Twine  me  for  A N  a  fadeless  garland. 

desk  of  one  whose  solid  yet  elegant,  talents  and  varied  erudition 
are  equalled  by  his  unremitting  industry.  To  no  AMERICAN  are 
the  schools  and  colleges  of  our  country  so  much  indebted  in  polite 
learning  as  to  Dr.  A N. 

£6* 


306  HORACE 

Pimplea  dulcis  :  nil  sine  te  mei 
Prosunt  honores  :  hunc  fidibus  novis, 
Hunc  Lesbio  sacrare  plectro 
Teque  tuasque  decet  sorores. 


LIB.   I.   19. 

IN    GLYCERAM. 

MATER  saeva  CUPIDINUM, 
Thebanseque  jubet  me  SEMELES  puer, 

Et  lasciva  licentia, 
Finitis  animum  reddere  amoribus. 

Urit  me  GLYCER^E  nitor 
Splendentis  Pario  marmore  purius, 

Urit  grata  protervitas, 
Et  vultus  nimium  lubricus  aspici. 

In  me  tota  ruens  VENUS 
CYPRUM  deseruit ;  nee  patitur  SCYTHAS, 

Et  versis  animosum  equis 
PARTHUM  dicere,  nee  quse  nihil  attinent. 

Hie  vivum  mihi  cespitem,  hie 
Verbenas,  pueri,  ponite,  turaque 

Bimi  cum  patera  meri  : 
Mactata  veniet  lenior  hostia. 


PARODIED.  307 

To  him  a  poet's  praise  is  superfluous  ; 
Yet  well  it  fitteth  thee  and  thy  sisterhood, 

His  name  to  sound  with  chords  unfray'd  yet, 
Stretch'd  on  the  shell  where  thy  HORACE  warbled. 


ODE   VII. 
ON  SYBIL. 

THE  passionate  love  of  beauty, 
Burning,  an  ^Etna,  in  natures  poetical, 

And  blood  whose  clear  current  yet  flows 
Ic'd  not  by  age,  steep  me  newly  in  foolishness. 

SYBIL'S  large  eyes,  which,  half-closing, 
Dart  their  quick  bolts  through  the  cloud  of  their  lashes  ; 

SYBIL'S  low  voice,  and  her  coyness 
Wantonly  study 'd,  inflame  me  and  madden  me. 

Desire  all  hearts  has  relinquish'd 
To  centre  in  mine,  nor  permits  me  young  CARRYL 

To  sing,  nor  him  of  the  Vision, 
Grac'd  with  the  ears  he  shall  wear  spite  his  modesty. 

Here  place  me  my  writing-desk,  here 
Reach  me  my  pen,  boy,  and  lay  smooth  my  paper,  and 

See  that  no  person  intrudes  ;  I  '11 
Write  her  a  note,  and  appoint  a  new  interview. 


308  HORACE 


LIB.   I.   9. 
AD   THALIARCHUM. 

VIDES  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum 
Soracte,  nee  jam  sustineant  onus 
Silvae  laborantes,  geluque 
Flumina  constiterint  acuto. 

Dissolve  frigus,  ligna  super  foco 
Large  reponens,  atque  benignius 
Deprome  quadrimum  Sabina, 
O  THALIARCHE,  merum  diota. 

Permitte  divis  caetera,  qui  simul 
Stravere  ventos  aequore  fervido 
Depro3liantes,  nee  cupressi, 
Nee  veteres  agitantur  orni. 

Quid  sit  futurum  eras,  fuge  quserere  ;  et 
Quern  sors  dierum  cunque  dabit,  lucro 
Appone  ;  nee  dulces  amores 
Sperne  puer,  neque  tu  choreas. 

Donee  virenti  canities  abest 
Morosa.     Nunc  et  campus,  et  arese, 
Lenesque  sub  noctem  susurri 
Cornposita  repetantur  hora  : 


PARODIED. 


ODE    VIII. 
TO   E.   C.   R. 

Lo,  where  the  streets  the  deep  snow  has  crusted  o'er 
Thick  is  the  air  with  flakes  that  are  falling  yet  ; 
The  wind  blows  frore,  and  on  the  casement 
Stiffens  the  warm  breath  in  shapes  fantastic. 

Heap  on  more  coals,  to  lessen  the  chilliness, 
Heap  with  bold  hand,  and,  prompt  to  enliven  us, 
While  sings  the  kettle  on  the  footman, 

Bring  out,  my  B R,  thy  best  Glenlivet. 

Care  leave  to  HEAVEX,  whose  fiat  dispersing  the 
Wild-warring  clouds  that  ride  on  the  thunder-gust, 
Peers  out  the  sun,  and,  singing  blithely, 
Sparkle  the  rivers,  in  light  exulting. 

What  brings  the  morrow,  shun  to  anticipate  ; 
Enough  that  Fortune  kindly  has  given  thee 
This  one  day  more  ;  and  while  thy  pulses 
Throb  with  the  vigor  that  age  shall  lessen, 

Disdain  not  mirth,  nor  passion's  deliciousness. 
Let  now  the  dance  delight  thee,  and  horsemanship, 
And  gentle  whispers,  when  the  nightfall 
Bringeth  the  moment  of  assignation  : 


310  HORACE 

Nunc  et  latentis  proditor  intimo 
Gratus  puellse  risus  ab  angulo, 
Pignusque  dereptum  lacertis 
Aut  digito  male  pertinaci. 


LIB.   I.  4. 
AD  L.   SEXTIUM. 

SOLVITUR  acris  hiems  grata  vice 

Veris  et  Favoni, 
Trahuntque  siccas  machinae  carinas. 

Ac  neque  jam  stabulis  gaudet  pecus, 

Aut  arator  igni ; 
Nee  prata  canis  albicant  pruinis. 

Jam  Cytherea  chores  ducit  VENUS, 

Imminente  Luna ; 
Junctaeque  Nymphis  Gratise  decentes 

Alterno  terram  quatiunt  pede, 

Dum  graves  Cyclopum 
VULCANUS  ardens  urit  officinas. 

Nunc  decet  aut  viridi  nitidum  caput 

Impedire  myrto, 
Aut  flore,  terra?  quern  ferunt  solutae. 


PARODIED.  31J 

Now  too  the  silvery  laugh,  that  delightfully 
Tells  where  the  dear  girl  hideth  impatient,  and 
The  token  from  her  round  arm  ravish'd, 
Or  from  the  finger  but  ill  resisting. 


ODE   IX. 
TO  RUBETA. 

PIERC'D  by  the  sun,  winter's  breast  is  relaxing  ; 

Zephyrs,  lightly  blowing, 
Waft  down  the  stream  the  sloops,  no  longer  ice-bound. 

Sharp-shod  no  more,  stands  the  steed  unblanketcd  ; 

Useless  are  the  sledges  ; 
Glisten  soft  dews,  where  sparkled  late  the  hoarfrost. 

Now,  'neath  the  light  that  favors  love  and  beauty, 

Lovers'  vows  are  whisper'd, 
And  village  maids,  by  shepherd  swains  encircled, 

Twine  in  the  dance  their  ancles  quick-glancing, 

While  their  prudent  fathers, 
The  field  late  till'd,  assort  the  grain  for  sowing. 

Now  the  coquette  may  encircle  her  forehead  fair 

With  the  virid  myrtle, 
Or  early  flow'rs,  recover'd  Nature's  bounty. 


312  HORACE 

Nunc  et  in  umbrosis  FAUNO  decet 

Immolare  lucis, 
Seu  poscat,  agna,  sive  malit,  haedo. 

Pallida  mors  sequo  pulsat  pede 

Pauperum  tabernas, 
Regumque  turres.     O  beate  SEXTI, 

Vitae  summa  brevis  spem  nos  vetat 

Inchoare  longam. 
Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabulaeque  manes, 

Et  domus  exilis  Plutonia. 

Quo  simul  mearis, 
Nee  regna  vini  sortiere  talis, 

Nee  tenerum  Lycidan  mirabere, 

Quo  calet  juventus 
Nunc  omnis,  et  mox  virgines  tepebunt. 


LIB.   I.    10. 
AD   MERCURIUM. 

MERCURI,  facunde  nepos  ATLANTIS, 
Qui  feros  cultus  hominum  recentum 

(i)  Al  the  time  this  parody  was  written,  a  course  of  lectures  was 
advertised  by  the  JV.  Y.  Historical  Society,  one  of  which,  by  the 
author  of  the  Diefiendorff  Sketches,  had  this  characteristic  title  (we 
give  it  precisely  as  it  was  printed)  :  "  A  counterblast  against  Tolac- 


PARODIED.  31 

Now  may  the  belle  too  stir  out  in  cities, 

Fearless  of  consumption, 
In  chariot  whirl'd,  or,  would  she  rather,  walking. 

Levelling  Death  wears  by  turns,  impartial, 

Royalty's  furr'd  mantle 
And  rags  of  lazars.     O  divine  RUBETA, 

To  thee  seasons  revolving  are  Mentors, 

Bidding  thee  write  faster. 
Already  now  Hell's  horny-crested  devils 

Ramp  to  replace  thy  own  grim  servitors. 

When  they  once  shall  butt  thee, 
Thou  wilt  not  care  to  lecture  on  Tobacco,  (i) 

Neither  will  thy  fancy  paint  fair  Diejfendorffs 
Stirring  up  young  DUTCHMEN,  — 
Which,  ev'n  to  read,  makes 's  mouth  to  water. 


ODE   X. 
TO  WORDSWORTH. 

WORDSWORTH,  somniferous  son  of  the  Muses, 
Who  the  rude  tastes  of  the  new  bards  of  BRITAIN 

co  —  NOT  in  the  manner  of  King  James's."  I  suppose  that  some- 
body, concerned  for  the  reputation  of  the  Society,  dissuaded  the 
erudite  wag  from  his  intention,  or  that  the  Society  itself,  coming  to 
its  senses,  obliged  him  to  drop  it ;  for  the  counterblast,  though  ad- 
vertised for  weeks,  was  never  sounded. 
27 


314  HORACE 

Voce  formasti  catus,  et  decone 
More  palaestrae  ! 

Te  canam,  magni  Jovis  et  deorum 
Nuntium,  curvseque  lyrae  parentem, 
Callidum  quicquid  placuit  jocoso 
Condere  furto  ! 

Te,  boves  olim  nisi  reddidisses 
Per  dolum  amotas,  puerum  minaci 
Voce  dum  terret,  viduus  pharetra 
Risit  APOLLO. 

Quin  et  ATRIDAS,  duce  te,  superbos, 
ILIO  dives  PRIAMUS  relicto, 
Thessalosque  ignes  et  iniqua  TROJ^E 
Castra  fefellit. 

Tu  pias  laetis  animas  reponis 
Sedibus,  virgaque  levem  coerces 
Aurea  turbam,  superis  deorum 
Gratus,  et  imis. 


PARODIED.  315 

Leadest  to  babies,  idiots,  and  graceful 
Odes  on  a  jackass  ! 

Thee  will  I  sing,  meek  advocate  of  dulness, 
Vain  of  inaneness,  parent  of  the  jewsharp, 
Ev'r  of  all,  who  in  wit  and  song  excel  thee, 
Subtle  maligner  ! 

Thee,  while  a  lad  and  perpetrating  ballads, 
Pitying,  said,  '  T  is  the  biggest  fool  created  ! 
But,  when  of  late  JOVE  show'd  him  thy  Excursion, 
Loud  laugh'd  APOLLO. 

Under  thy  guidance,  common  sense  abandon'd, 
Hundreds  of  bastard  sonnetteers  and  songsters 
Beggar  the  booktrade,  and,  in  long  succession, 
Task  the  reviewers. 

Thou  in  green  meadows,  by  the  marge  of  streamlets, 
Placest  the  souls  of  little  lads  and  lasses, 
And  with  thy  fattens  lullest  infants  teething, 
Grateful  to  nurses. 


ENGLAND,— AS  SHE  IS. 
A  SATIRE. 


Think'st  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains  ? 

SABDANAPALUS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  following  fragment  was  written  in  LONDON,  in  the  winter 
of  1833.  After  a  lapse  of  nearly  nine  years,  its  satire  is  still  appli- 
cable. Monarchies  do  not  rectify  abuses  so  speedily  as  republics. 

It  was  written,  it  will  be  seen,  in  the  character  of  an  ENGLISH- 
MAN. My  feelings,  at  the  time,  were  those  of  an  ENGLISHMAN.  1 
was  residing  in  ENGLAND,  to  continue  there  for  I  knew  not  how 
long  a  time  :  an  AMERICAN,  claiming  a  purely  British  origin,  it  was 
no  difficult  matter  for  me  to  identify  myself  with  her  people.  I  did 
so  almost  unconsciously.  I  loved  their  greatness,  took  pleasure  in 
their  prosperity,  felt  for  their  calamities,  and  resented  their  op- 
pression. They  are  feelings  which,  in  part,  can  never  be  again 
awakened. 

In  the  commencement  of  the  piece,  I  find  an  unintentional  re- 
semblance to  a  passage  in  BYRON'S  Bards  and  Reviewers.  Like  the 
weaker  portions  of  the  poem,  it  must  remain  unaltered.  I  cannot 
now  spare  either  the  time  or  the  labor  necessary  for  correction. 

Almost  three  years  since  (December  19,  1838).  I  was  startled  by 
seeing  the  following  lines  in  a  newspaper  :  •  •  •  "  A  whip  should  be 
put 

'  In  every  honest  hand, 
To  lash  the  rascal  naked  through  the  land] 

who  thus  ventures  to  assail  one,"  etc.  The  verse  and  half,  it  will 
be  seen,  is  my  own  application,  and  alteration  into  rhyme,  of  a 
distich  from  SHAKSPEARE.  How  it  came  in  the  Buffdo  Commer- 
cial Advertiser  is  more  than  I  can  conjecture. 


320  ADVERTISEMENT  OF  THE  SATIRE. 

But  a  more  curious  coincidence  is  that  which  occurs  further  on 
in  the  poem,  where  are  found  these  lines  : 

So  when  a  wife,  or  mistress  's  to  be  got, 

We  are  her  humble  servant,  slave,  what  not  ? 

When  once  the  will  's  obtain'd,  no  more  we  say, 

"  Command  me,  love  ?  "  but,  "  Madam,  please  obey  !  " 

Opposite  to  this  passage,  I  had  occasion  to  make  the  following 

note  in  the  manuscript :  "  On  page  4,  I  had  converted  into  rhyme 

two   blank  verses  of  SHAKSPEARE'S.     Five  years  afterwards,  I 

found  them,  to  my  surprise,  in  a  newspaper  paragraph.    To-day, 

March  4th,  1841 ,  eight  years  since  the  poem  was  written,  copied, 

passed  through  the  hands  of  several  London  booksellers,  etc.,  behold 

a  member  of  Congress  using  this  very  simile,  and  with  a  similar 

application  !     *  *  *     It  is  barely  possible  that  the  orator  may  have 

seen  my  piece,  so  many  hands  has  it  passed  through  ;  but  it  is  to 

the  last  degree  improbable.     The  coincidence  is  striking,  and,  but 

for  one  reason,  would  be  as  amusing  to  me  as  it  is  instructive. 

'  Mr.  P addressed  the  Committee,  &c.,  &c.    As  to  war  there 

certainly  was  a  change  of  tone  in  certain  gentlemen.  Certain  of 
going  out,  they  were  warm  for  war,  while  those  who  were  coming 
in  felt  something  of  its  responsibility.  It  was  like  a  young  man 
courting  a  young  lady,  •promising  every  thing ;  but  after  marriage 
the  tone  was  greatly  changed.  There  was  a  vast  difference  between 
in  and  out.'  Report  of  the  Proceedings  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, March  1st,  1841." 

At  the  present  date,  it  may  perhaps  be  well  to  remind  the  reader 
that  the  time  of  the  subject  of  the  piece  is  that  of  the  ascendancy  of 
what  was  called  the  Reformed  Parliament,  and  of  the  union  of  the 
British  and  French  fleets  for  compelling  a  weaker  power,  as  usual, 
to  submit  to  their  dictation,  for  the  benefit  of  a  third  party.  This 
weaker  power  was  HOLLAND,  and  the  party  benefited  was  the 
fortunate  Prince  LEOPOLD. 


ENGLAND,— AS   SHE   IS. 

A  SATIRE. 


WHEN  Virtue  hangs  the  head,  and  Vice  prevails, 

And  Justice,  drunk,  sits  nodding  o'er  the  scales, 

Or,  blind  but  to  the  humble,  drops  her  fold, 

To  mark  whose  plea  weighs  strongest,  poiz'd  with  gold  ; 

When  fools  in  power  and  knaves  make  common  cause, 

To  yoke  dependence  with  unrighteous  laws, 

And  bid  the  poor  man  bless  the  king  and  state, 

Though  Famine  clamor  at  his  house's  gate  ; 

When  Reason,  ever  weakest  with  the  strong, 

Finds  the  voice  mock'd  that  would  dissuade  from  wrong ; 

What  shall  avail  ?    Let  Satire  then  advance, 

Firm  truth  her  buckler,  ridicule  her  lance, 

Rout  the  vile  herd,  that  trample  in  the  dust 

Man's  natal  rights,  though  Heaven  confirms  them  just. 

And  put  a  scourge  in  every  honest  hand, 

To  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  land.(i) 

(i)    '«  And  put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip 

To  lash  the  rascal  naked  through  the  world." 

Othello. 


322  ENGLAND, 

O  Liberty  !  dear  goddess  !  at  whose  shrine 
I  offer  up  each  act,  resource,  that  's  mine  ! 
Whose  favor'd  seat  once  bless'd  my  native  isle, 
Cheer'd  the  low  cot,  and  made  each  furrow  smile,  — 
Since  fled  to  other  brighter  climes,  deny'd 
That  homage  here,  which  then  was  BRITAIN'S  pride  ! 
Alas  !  although  thy  name  may  seem  still  dear, 
Profan'd  by  slaves,  who  echo  what  they  hear, 
Thy  slighted  worship  greets  no  more  the  day, 
Thy  temples  moulder,  and  thy  shrines  decay, 
And  the  pure  fires,  that  quiver'd  in  thy  fane, 
Quench'd,  trodden  out,  their  ashes  but  remain, 
Gather 'd  and  urn'd,  like  relics  of  the  dead,  — 
Like  these,  alas  !  to  mark  the  spirit  fled  ! 
Yet,  if  the  few,  of  soul  still  nobly  free, 
Staunch  to  what  honor  dictates,  and  to  thee, 
Deserve  success  ("  and  Heaven  defend  the  right !  ") 
Should  crown  their  struggles  in  the  glorious  fight, 
Leave  young  AMERICA  awhile,  and  driven 
Swift  through  the  air  that  wraps  thy  birthplace,  HEAVEN, 
Creep  to  my  heart,  my  eager  soul  inspire, 
Fill  every  thought  with  thee  !  each  verse  with  fire  ! 
That,  wing'd  by  truth,  my  voice  may  reach  its  aim, 
Sting  the  exacting  ruler's  breast  with  shame, 
Raise  from  the  dust  the  weary  hind  oppress'd, 
And  wake  the  soul  in  every  BRITON'S  breast  ! 

"The  times  are  out  of  joint! ". . .    Who  knows  it  not  ? 
The  mischief 's  old.  .  .     And  simple.     Yet,  God  wot, 
They  've  bungled  so  the  cure,  the  fool  that  's  blind 
May  snuff  its  presence  on  the  passing  wind  ! 


AS   SHE  IS.  323 

Shame  on  their  hearts,  who,  remedy  in  hand, 

Thus  trifle  with  the  anguish  of  the  land  ! 

"Reform  !  "     O,  ay,  Reform  !  their  joint  exclaim. 

What  !  shall  they  cheat  us  with  an  empty  name  ! 

As  squalling  brats  by  cherries  are  beguil'd, 

Shown  by  the  nurse  to  soothe,  not  feed  the  child  ! 

Where  be  the  principles  these  men  avow'd, 

When  their  meek  voices  thus  harang'd  the  crowd  ? 

"  Sweet  fellow-citizens  !    Your  votes  we  crave  ! 

We  are  not,  we,  like  this  fool,  or  that  knave. 

They  come  to  serve  themselves  ;  nor  will  they  swear, 

Except  it  like  them,  to  support  your  prayer  : 

We  have  no  selfish  views  ;  without  conditions 

We  '11  carry,  by  wholesale,  all  your  petitions ! 

Besides,  you  see  they  're  gentlemen  !  and  then 

They  are  but  striplings,  — we  the  people's  men!  " 

And  so,  to  stroke  the  mob,  in  vulgar  cant 

On  their  own  merits  modestly  they  rant,  — 

Protest  they  have  no  will,  the  public's  slave 

Should  up  and  down  just  as  its  hand  may  wave,  — 

"We  pledge  ourselves  to  all!  no  wish  but  yours. 

Retrenchment  ?  tithes  abolish' d,  —  sinecures  ? 

Taxes  repealed?  —  Ay  !  —  Peace  with  Holland  1  —All  ! 

Just  pack  them  in  one  budget,  —  great  with  small  !  " 

Once  in  the  house,  they  use  indeed  their  tongues, 

Since  all  's  forgotten,  save  their  power  of  lungs. 

So,  when  a  wife  or  mistress  's  to  be  got, 

We  are  her  humble  servant,  slave,  what  not  ? 

When  once  the  will  's  obtain'd,  no  more  we  say, 

"  Command  me,  love  !  "  but,  "  Madam,  please  obey." 

Yet,  thanks  to  Heaven  !  there  are  a  loftier  few,  — 

Of  spirit  more  sapient,  and  of  heart  more  true. 


324  ENGLAND, 

But  what,  O  ******  a  may  thy  voice  avail 
'Gainst  the  loud  fry,  that,  thick  as  summer  hail, 
Beat  down  the  hopes  that  promis'd  soon  to  yield, 
And  strew  the  ripening  harvest  on  the  field  ? 
Retrenchment!    Ay  !  on  that  we  're  all  agreed  ! 
The  body  must  be  bled.     But  where  to  bleed  ? 
"They  shall  not  lop  off  sinecures ,"  says  B., 
"  For,  if  they  lop  off  them,  they  lop  off  me  ! 
I  'mfor  '  retrenchment '  ;  but  retrench  not  there  ; 
Some  other  parts  have  much  more  blood  to  spare." 
"  Cut  off  the  Pension  list  ?  "  cries  Captain  FEATHER, 
"  Pray,  let  me  ask  the  Learned  Member,  whether 
He  'd  have  the  gallant  men,  who  've  fought  and  bled 
For  king  and  country,  houseless  and  unfed  ? 
'T  would  strike  our  name,  sir,  from  the  roll  of  nations, 
To  make  men  live  upon  their  pay  and  rations  ! 
Cut  off? —    I  'd  sooner  you  'd  cut  off  my  ears  !  " 
And  down  he  sat.    Note  [laughter,  and  —  loud  cheers.] 

And  thus  Corruption  runs  from  sire  to  son  ! 
Still  nourish 'd  thus,  't  was  thus  its  growth  begun. 
All  see  there  are  abuses  to  amend  ; 
All  say  the  nation  squanders,  does  not  spend  ; 
All  prate  of  country  ;   "  self?  "     O  no  !  in  need 
Each  private  stream  the  public  fount  should  feed. 
But  when  the  fountain  threats  to  drain  the  stream, 
Self  sinks  the  scale,  and  country  kicks  the  beam. 

O  monstrous  blot  upon  the  British  shield  ! 
The  hard-earn'd  mite  the  peasant  scrapes  afield, 
Wrung  from  his  dripping  brow,  is  forc'd  away,  — 
To  help  the  land's  expenditure  defray  ? 


AS   SHE  IS.  325 

No  !  but  to  swell  yon  scoundrel  minion's  purse, 
Already  bloated  by  a  people's  curse  ; 
Or  fatten  some  fool's  spawn,  some  belted  thing, 
That  fought  an  unjust  battle  for  its  king. 
Though  heroes  rant  of  Glory  as  their  meed, 
A  solid  pension  makes  it  sweet  to  bleed. 

Yet,  —  Does  the  devil  laugh  ?  —  as  if  this  drain, 
Upon  the  nation's  vital  sap,  were  vain, 
New  sinecures  are  made,  vamp'd  in  an  hour, 
Reward  of  secret  service  done  to  power,  — 
Or  bribe  to  win  some  sturdy  patriot  o'er, 
Whose  conscience,  eas'd,  shall  trouble  place  no  more,  — 
Or,  worse  than  all,  a  favorite  to  please, 
Who  keeps  a  —  friend,  that  ought  to  live  at  ease. 
In  HELL,  if  feasting  be  in  fashion  there, 
They  revel  long  o'er  this.     Well  may  they  spare 
Some  hours  of  jubilee,  in  joy  that  man 
Should  work  himself  more  wo  than  demons  can  ! 

Yet  are  we  happy  ;  prosperous.     Why  not, 
They  tell  us  so  ?     Good  people  bless  your  lot  ; 
For  hark  !  what  says  the  Member  rising  now, 
With  some  important  matter  on  his  brow  ? 
Kind,  feeling,  soul  !  he  's  standing  up  to  move 
(What  shall  attest  our  gratitude  !  our  love  !) 
His  tender  sympathies,  which,  choking,  share 
The  people's  sufferings,  for  want  of  air  ! 
"Penn'd  up  all  day  in  adding  to  their  wealth, 
The  Crown  should  multiply  their  means  of  health, 
Provide  large  public  squares  in  every  town, 
Where  cits  may  stretch  themselves,  stroll  up  and  down, 


326  ENGLAND, 

And  gain  an  appetite,  in  parks  and  malls, 

For  "  —  dinner  with  Duke  Humphrey  of  St.  Paul's,  (i) 

Thrice  fortunate  are  we  !  with  rulers  bless'd 

That  see  our  wants  before  they  be  express'd  ; 

And  pour  from  coffers,  that  are  running  o'er, 

The  means  to  make  us  great,  (2)  as  well  as  poor  ! 

What  !  shall  we  blame  them,  that  consult  our  pride, 

Insure  our  vanity,  though  nought  beside, 

Build  Public  Galleries, (3)  and  works  of  taste,  — 

On  which  alone  a  nation's  fame  is  bas'd,(4)  — 

(i)  That  is,  nowhere,  according  to  a  proverb  with  the  cockneys. 

"  The  Parliamentary  Committee  which  has  been  appointed  to 
provide  public  walks  for  the  people  in  cities  and  towns,  and  their 
environs,  ought  to  have  followed  instead  of  preceding  another  com- 
mittee,—  namely,  one  to  provide  them  with  employment.  A  great 
portion  of  the  population  of  England  have  at  the  present  day  too 
much  walking,  and  too  little  work.  The  additional  promenading 
which  the  Committee  of  Public  Walks  may  induce  the  poorer  por- 
tion of  our  fellow-subjects  to  take,  by  placing  in  their  way  the 
temptations  of  esplanades,  green  alleys,  and  ornamental  pathways, 
may  improve  their  appetites,  but  will  not  procure  them  a  dinner, 
—  the  prospect  of  which  at  the  end  of  a  long  ramble  would  be  very 
encouraging.  We  imagine  that  the  latter  object  could  be  better 
ascertained  by  a  Committee  of  Public  Works,  to  give  employment 
to  the  poor,  than  a  Committee  of  PuUic  Walks,  to  teach  them  to 
feed  on  air."  Morning  Herald,  February  25th,  1833. 

(2),  (3),  (4).  In  the  MS.  these  three  places  are  marked  for  annota- 
tion. But  I  find  no  other  memorandum  than  a  parliamentary  grant 
of  £  16,000  to  the  British  Museum,  and  a  remark,  that  science  is 
confined  to  the  few,  and  that,  with  all  the  utility  of  a  museum,  it  is 
a  greater  object  and  a  -higher  duty  in  a  government  to  make  the 
people  happy,  as  in  AMERICA,  than  to  provide  them  with  collections 
of  rarities  in  art  and  nature,  as  in  ENGLAND  ;  collections  which 
they  never  visit.  (3)  Refers,  if  I  rightly  recollect,  to  a  projected 
National  Gallery  in  Pall  Mall  East ;  and  (4)  alludes  to  a  speech  in 
Parliament,  the  tenor  of  which  may  be  gathered  from  the  context. 


AS  SHE  IS.  327 

Because  a  tax-crush'd  population  cries, 

Or  starving  beggar  dins  their  ears  with  lies  ? 

What  matters  it  that  Tom  and  Dick  complain  ? 

'T  is  grand  to  suffer  for  a  nation's  gain. 

Or,  shall  the  rich  be  summon'd  to  relieve 

Woes  of  whose  pang  they  never  can  conceive  ? 

We  look  at  others  through  ourselves,  and  they 

Have  bread  to  eat,  and  time  to  throw  away  ; 

Why  should  such  ruffle,  once,  their  downy  ease, 

By  thought  of  wretches,  suffering  like  these  ? 

"  O,  damn  them  !  let  them  starve  ;  the  lazy  brood 

Want  flogging  ten  times  more  than  they  want  food." 

.  .  .  But  if  you  let  them  starve,  my  lord,  they  die. 

"  That  's  ADAM'S  fault,  not  mine.     JOHN,  call  my  fly." 

And  have  we,  then,  no  charity  ?     Good  God  ! .  . 
Swear  not !  Enough,  for  objects  .  .  .  Well  ? .  .  Abroad. 
What  sad  emotions  agitate  the  soul, 
When  clank  the  chains  that  bind  the  patriot  POLE  ! 
GREECE  too  can  speak  our  pity  for  the  brave. 
Now  hark  !  that  shout,  —  Emancipate  the  slave  ! 
Slave  ?     Said  I  right  ?     Must  then  Compassion  roam 
To  find  such  objects  ?     Are  there  none  at  home  ? 
See  the  poor  child,  whose  tender  years  demand 
No  common  nursing  from  no  careless  hand, 
Torn  from  its  home,  by  poverty  constrain'd, 
And  sold  to  slavery,  O,  worse  than  chain'd  ! 
No  wholesome  air  of  Heaven  its  breath  inspires  ; 
No  childish  sport  its  drooping  spirit  fires  ; 
Nor  rest  at  will,  nor  frequent  food,  repairs 
The  shatter'd  frame  which  forc'd  exertion  wears  : 
Penn'd  up  vyith  hundreds  like  it,  every  breath 
It  draws  is  pregnant  with  disease  and  death  : 


328  ENGLAND, 

Confin'd  to  one  exertion  of  one  power, 
The  same  unchanging  toil  from  hour  to  hour, 
Poor  growing  Nature,  thwarted  and  restrain'd, 
Here  rankly  spreading,  there  her  efforts  chain'd, 
The  victim  shuffles  life  and  death  between, 
Till  the  last,  kindly,  drops  the  closing  scene  ! 
Distorted,  crippled,  palsied,  ere  mature,  — 
Say  !  what  like  this  does  slavery  endure  ?  (l) 

Burns  not  each  forehead  at  the  shameful  tale  ? 
Turns  not  the  cheek  of  smitten  Conscience  pale  ? 
Droops  not  the  head  to  find  itself  deceiv'd,  — 
That  fancy  warm'd,  although  the  heart  believed  ? 
No  charity,  nor  true  compassion.     No  ! 
You  cannot  pity  but  ideal  wo. 
Rous'd  by  some  flimsy  orator's  quail-pipe, 
The  Passions  wake  :  —  "  See,  where  the  frequent  stripe 
Seams  his  bare  shoulders  !  Yet,  —  the  lash  once  more  ! 
Ere  the  raw,  festering  wounds  be  scarred  o'er  ! 
Mark  you  his  agony  ?     He  faints  !  he  bleeds  ! 
O,  BRITONS  !  will  ye  countenance  such  deeds  ? 


(i)  "In  Warrington  there  is  a  pin  manufactory,  in  which  there 
are  fifteen  frames  for  heading.  At  each  frame,  four  persons,  chiefly 
children,  are  employed,  in  a  sitting  posture,  the  right  hand  used 
in  placing  the  pin  under  the  hammer,  and  the  left  in  taking  it 
.away,  while  the  footworks  the  treddle  which  lifts  the  weight, — 
about  fourteen  pounds.  In  this  occupation  the  poor  creatures  are 
kept  from  six  in  the  morning  to  half  past  eight  or  nine  at  night ; 
they  are  not  allowed  to  speak  to  each  other,  or  to  withdraw  their 
eyes  from  their  work.  Some  of  these  young  slaves  are  under  eight, 
and  others  under  seven  years  of  age."  Manchester  Advertiser  (of 
the  date  of  the  MS.)- 


AS   SHE  IS.  329 

Men  !  will  ye  shame  with  stripes  your  fellow's  back  ? 
He  is  a  brother,  were  he  ten  times  black  !  " 
At  once,  the  paper  's  drawn  ;  a  thousand  sign. 
What  man  of  feeling  will  refuse  to  join  ? 

The  rage,  the  fashion,  spreads  ;  it  seizes  all, 

Old,  doubtful,  young,  great,  middle-siz'd,  and  small, 

From  Lizard's  Point  to  distant  John  o'  Groats, 

Young  Master's  breeches,  Miss's  petticoats. 
The  very  turnspit  pauses  ere  he  turn, 
The  red-hot  cook  forgets  the  roast  will  burn, 
While,  spelling  hard,  she  reads  the  great  Petition, 
And  gaping  menials  echo,  "  Abolition  !  " 
And  even  Poodle,  stretch'd  upon  the  floor, 
Pricks  up  his  ears  to  see  their  eyes  run  o'er, 
Thrusts  out  the  hind  leg,  wags  his  tail  with  glee, 
And  scratches  at  his  collar,  as  if  free. 

O  dew-ey'd  Pity  !  eldest  born  of  HEAVEN  ! 
Who  sins  for  thee,  shall  surely  be  forgiven  ! 
For  love  of  thee,  whose  beauty  stands  between 
Man's  nature  and  the  self  that  makes  him  mean  ! 
What  leech  like  thee  ?  who  mak'st  another's  groan 
So  move  our  bowels  we  forget  our  own, 
Bathe  with  our  tears  the  sorrows  of  the  black, 
Nor  mark  the  blood  upon  a  BRITON'S  back, 
When  the  poor  soldier,  by  a  curs'd  decree, 
Receives  the  lash  that  brands  him  only  free,  (i) 

(i)  "  Private  Carter,  of  the  second  battalion  of  the  rifle  brigade, 
stationed  at  Windsor,  who  had  been  found  guilty,  by  a  regimental 
court-martial,  of  having  induced  two  ignorant  recruits  to  dispose  of 
part  of  their  regimental  necessaries,  and  afterwards  participating  in 
the  proceeds,  underwent  a  portion  of  his  sentence  in  the  centre  of 


332  ENGLAND,   AS   SHE  IS. 

The  eye  grow  bright  that  languor  render'd  dim, 

And  vigor  springing  in  each  wasted  limb, 

Shall  know  the  poor  man's  friend  that  smooth'd  her 

cares, 
And  SADLER'S  name  be  murmur'd  in  her  prayers  !  (i) 

(UNFINISHED.) 


(i)  Mr.  SADLER  was  a  Member  of  Parliament,  who  undertook  to 
plead  before  his  country  the  cause  of  the  victims  of  Avarice.  The 
name  preceding,  for  which  I  have  substituted  asterisks,  belonged 
to  another  Member,  who  was  generally  thought,  at  the  time,  to 
have  been  duped  by  the  manufacturers  into  a  favorable  representa- 
tion of  their  interests. 


TRIFLES. 


.  .  .  Tenues  ignavo  pollice  chordas 

Pulso 

STAT.  Sylv.  iv. 

Quanto  rectius  hoc,  quam  tristi  Icedere  versu 
Pantolabum  scurram,  Nomentanumque  nepotem 
HOB-  Serm.  n.  I. 


332  ENGLAND,  AS  SHE  IS. 

The  eye  grow  bright  that  languor  render'd  dim, 

And  vigor  springing  in  each  wasted  limb, 

Shall  know  the  poor  man's  friend  that  smooth'd  her 

cares, 
And  SADLER'S  name  be  murmur 'd  in  her  prayers  !  (i) 

(UNFINISHED.) 


(i)  Mr.  SADLER  was  a  Member  of  Parliament,  who  undertook  to 
plead  before  his  country  the  cause  of  the  victims  of  Avarice.  The 
name  preceding,  for  which  I  have  substituted  asterisks,  belonged 
to  another  Member,  who  was  generally  thought,  at  the  time,  to 
have  been  duped  by  the  manufacturers  into  a  favorable  representa- 
tion of  their  interests. 


TRIFLES. 


.  .  .  Tenues  ignavo  pollice  chordas 

Pulso 

STAT.  Sylv.  iv. 

Quanto  rectius  hoc,  quam  tristi  lasdere  versu 
Pantolabum  scurram,  Nomentanumque  nepotem ! 
HOB.  Serm-  H.  J. 


TRIFLES. 


TRIOLET. 

SYBIL  plays  the  prude  with  me. 
T  is  because  she  loves  me  well. 
Hence  it  is  well-pleas 'd  I  see 
SYBIL  plays  the  prude  with  me. 
Who  would  have  the  maid  more  free, 
Would  not  have  the  same  to  tell. 
SYBIL  plays  the  prude  with  me. 
'T  is  because  she  loves  me  well. 


II. 
RONDEAU. 

THY  soft  pure  breast,  my  SYBIL,  is  the  seat 
Of  gentle  wishes  and  affections  sweet  : 
Gentle  and  sweet  as  angels',  though  not  fed 
With  aught  so  dainty  as  celestial  bread, 


336  TRIFLES. 

For  thou  art  warm,  and  something  of  a  cheat. 
Fragrant  and  fresh,  an  ornament  most  meet 
For  thee  the  rose  whose  beauty  makes  complet< 
Thy  modest  robe,  and  decks  with  petals  red 

Thy  soft  pure  breast. 

Ah,  that  thou  wouldst  thy  humble  servant  treat 
E'en  like  that  flower,  so  envied  in  its  seat ! 
Then  where  it  lies  I  too  might  lay  my  head, 
Thy  delicate  arms  all  fondly  round  me  spread, 
And  feel  against  my  cheek  with  rapture  beat 

Thy  soft  pure  breast. 


III. 
THE  LOAN. 

tc  YET  awhile,  ah,  prithee  stay  ; 
One  more  kiss  to  those  thou  'st  given  : 
Who  shall  promise  us  we  may 
Meet  again  this  side  of  Heaven  ? 

"  Rapture  !     Since  thou  art  so  kind, 
Grudge  not  what  thou  hast  in  plenty. 
Five  :  yet  there  are  more  behind. 
Ten  :  come,  make  the  number  twenty." 

Given  they  were,  and  one  by  one, 
Given  with  gust  ;  and  then  we  parted. 
But,  ere  twice  ten  steps  she  'd  gone, 
Back  she  turn'd  to  whence  she  'd  started 


STANCES.  337 

Back  she  turn'd  to  where  I  stood, 
Watching  her  lov'd  form  receding  ; 
Then  the  jade  in  frolic  mood, 
With  her  grace  of  native  breeding, 

Closing  half  her  eyes'  broad  lid, 
Which  and  night  but  ill  were  screening 
Smile  and  blush  that  rose  unbid, 
Curtsying,  thus  express'd  her  meaning  : 

"Ere  we  part,  my  loan  repay  ; 
Give  me  back  what  I  have  given  : 
Who  shall  promise  us  we  may 
Meet  again  this  side  of  Heaven  ?  " 


IV. 

STANCES. 

VOULANT  dissimuler  1'ardeur 

De  sa  tendresse, 
IRIS  montre  de  la  hauteur. 

Quelle  faiblesse  ! 

Get  effort  pour  se  degager 
De  dessous  1'onde 

Dit  qu'  IRIS  ne  sait  pas  nager 
Dans  1'eau  profonde. 

29 


TRIFLES. 

Mais  ce  qui  me  semble  plus  sot, 

IRIS  est  sure, 
Non  qu'elle  paye  un  juste  impot 

De  la  Nature, 

En  dormant  a  sa  cruaute 

Pleine  carriere, 
Mais  que  c'est  a  sa  volonte 

Elle  est  altiere. 

£coute,  IRIS  :  Ce  faux  semblant, 

De  votre  sexe, 
Tandis  qu'il  dompte,  en  I'aga9ant, 

Le  cceur  qu'il  vexe, 

Le  vainqueur  meme  attache  a  nous. 

Ainsi  la  chatte 
Pousse,  en  miaulant,  les  matous 

A  coups  de  patte. 


V. 

THE   CHILDREN    IN   THE   ROAD. 
A  TOUCHING  STORY. 


IT  was  the  hour  that  follows  the  first  dawn. 
I  at  my  window,  which  did  overlook 
The  dusty  street,  and  not  a  shadowy  lawn, 
Did  sit  reclin'd.     Before  me  was  no  book, 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  ROAD.  339 

Nor  pen,  nor  paper  ;  for  I  had  not  quit 

My  single  bed  that  morning  in  a  fit 

Of  studious  musing,  being  not  inclin'd 

To  such  a  painful  moiling  of  the  wit, 

Nor  caring,  for  the  tillage  of  the  mind, 

To  yoke  my  body  to  fatigue  and  pain  ; 

But  simply  for  that  I  had  found  it  vain 

To  keep  my  perch  much  longer  than  the  cocks, 

The  bugs  did  bite  so,  and  had  restless  lain 

Since  midnight,  and  had  counted  all  the  clocks, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  —  a  weary  chime 

To  him  who  'd  hasten  or  would  keep  back  Time. 

And  then  the  sultry  heat  ('t  was  August  now,) 

And  the  rnoschetoes'  querulous,  drowsy  drone, 

Were  quite  sufficient,  in  themselves  alone, 

To  chase  all  slumber  from  my  aching  brow. 

The  neighbours  were  not  stirring,  —  happy  hearts  ! 

I  envy'd  them  their  fasten'd  shutters,  —  and 

The  streets  scarce  echoed  to  the  passing  carts, 

So  few  between,  nor  yet  the  shopman's  stand 

Display 'd  its  stockfish,  herrings,  eggs,  and  plums, 

Nor  rose  from  frequent  throngs  their  busy  hums. 

Dust  too  was  on  the  unbesom'd  flags,  and  here 

A  dead  segar,  which  boys  "  old  so'dier  "  call, 

Lay  cooly  by  an  orange-rind,  and  near, 

Shut  in  betwixt  a  housedoor  and  a  wall, 

Were  still  less  seemly  signs  of  vulgar  cheer 

And  riot,  which  the  sons  of  Belial  leave, 

When,  reeling  clamorous  through  the  streets  by  night, 

Their  watching  mothers'  hearts  they  sorely  grieve, 

And  give  to  waken'd  sleepers  small  delight. 


340  TRIFLES. 

As  I  did  loll,  with  nightcap  on  my  poll, 
And  felt  much  wrath  awaken  in  my  soul, 
That  people  should  not  be  compell'd  to  rise 
And  make  their  doors  more  fit  for  neighbours'  eyes, 
Loud  shouts  and  laughter  suddenly  did  ring 
Full  pleasantly  on  my  vibrating  ear. 
"Ah  ha  ! "  I  said,  "  there  be  some  few,  't  is  clear, 
That  properly  their  children  up  do  bring 
To  rise  betimes  ;  for  sure  this  jocund  noise 
Is  childhood's  laughter  and  the  shout  of  boys." 

I  forward  lean'd,  and  straightway  did  espy 
What  made  these  little  men  so  gayly  cry. 
Around  the  corner  of  a  street  in  view, 
There  came  a  little  negro,  a  male  child  ; 
And  after  him  three  other  boys  defil'd 
That  seem'd  that  sooty  urchin  to  pursue. 
Much  larger  they  than  he,  yet  children  too. 
And  as  they  ran  behind  him,  —  it  did  seem. 
Not  for  to  catch  him,  but  to  keep  in  sight,  — 
They  laugh'd  so  hard,  that  I  did  really  deem 
Their  little  bellies  all  would  burst  outright. 
Not  so  the  hunted  one  :  his  cheeks  were  wet 
With  his  eyes'  rain,  that  down  was  pouring  yet. 
And  shone  like  some  black  bottle,  ere  its  jet 
Is  with  the  dust  of  generations  coated, 
Or  closely  netted  over  by  some  bloated 
Industrious  spinner  of  the  vault.     His  voice 
Too  rung  not  out  as  those  that  do  rejoice, 
But  with  pure  grief,  and  terror,  and  despite. 
Behind  him  'neath  his  jacket  something  white 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  ROAD.  341 

Hung  midway  down  his  legs,  and  as  before 
He  grasp'd  his  little  waistband  in  his  hand, 
I  saw  at  once,  and  seeing  did  deplore 
What  caus'd  to  laugh  that  merry-making  band. 

"Alas  !  "  I  cry'd,  "  can  children  take  delight 
To  see  a  brother's  breeches  at  his  heels  ? 
Perhaps,  who  knows  ?  they  slipp'd  them  down  !   O  sight 
Deplorable,  to  one  who  truly  feels 
The  sin  of  his  humanity  !  "    And  then, 
I  would  have  cry'd  unto  those  little  men, 
In  tones  that  must  have  mov'd  them,  were  they  stone, 
"  Fy,  naughty  boys  !   do  let  the  child  alone. 
If  you  did  catch  him  in  that  doubtful  case, 
You  should  not  thus  have  follow'd  him  in  chase, 
But  given  him  time  his  muslin  to  replace. 
But  if  you  did  undo  him,  as  I  fear 
You  did,  say,  children,  did  you  never  hear 
Your  fathers  tell  you  of  the  Bad  Place,  where 
They  roast  up  little  children  that  obey 
The  Wicked  One  that  tells  them  for  to  play 
Such  tricks  as  these  ?     Ah,  simple  ones,  forbear 
Your  cruel  sport,  nor  thus  the  child  pursue. 
Or,  help  him  button  up  his  trowsers,  do  !  " 

Thus,  or  in  some  such  tones,  I  would  have  cry'd, 
And  no  doubt  should  have  sham'd  them.     But  I  spy'd 
A  buxom  girl  of  eighteen  years  or  more, 
Who  had  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  wore 
A  frock  with  rosebuds  stamp'd,  and  on  her  head 
Had  a  straw  bonnet,  which  was  simply  ty'd 
With  a  new  riband,  which  I  think  was  red, 
29* 


342  TRIFLES. 

But  may  have  been  peagreen.     What  else  she  had, 
Or  if  a  silken  shawl  her  shoulders  clad, 
I  now  forget  ;  or  else  I  never  knew  ; 
Only,  one  toe  was  peeping  from  her  shoe. 

The  maid,  — for  maid  she  surely  seem'd  to  be,  — 
Was  of  the  color  of  those  naughty  boys, 
Yet  suddenly  repress'd  their  clamorous  glee. 
"  Why,  Goodness'  mercy  !  what  means  all  this  noise 
Quoth  she.     "  O;  I  will  tell  your  mothers  !     See  ! 
See  if  I  don't,  that  's  all  !     You  little  wretches  ! 
Come  here,  my  child  !  I  '11  button  up  your  breeches. 

Then  the  good  negress,  as  these  words  she  said, 
Laid  down  her  basket  on  a  flight  of  steps, 
Whither  the  hunted  sufferer  had  fled, 
And  wip'd  his  eyes,  and  nose,  and  cheeks,  and  lips, 
And  bade  him  not  to  cry,  and  have  no  dread. 
Then,  seizing  his  small  trowsers  with  one  hand, 
Without  a  single  blush,  (I  mark'd  her  well, 
And  must  have  seen  it,  had  her  face  turn'd  red,) 
Thrust  in  the  other  arm,  and,  strange  to  tell  ! 
Tuck'd  down  his  tail,  and  button'd  up  his  band. 

When  this  I  saw,  delighted  I  exclaim'd, 
Within  my  heart,  "Man  is  not  wholly  bad  ! 
While  girls  like  this  in  cities  may  be  had, 
There  is  some  hope  the  world  may  be  reclaim'd. 
Joy  with  thy  soul,  dear  ebon  maiden,  go  ! 
More  dearly  I  thy  memory  will  prize 
Than  if  thy  cheeks  were  of  the  driven  snow, 
And  bluer  than  the  sky  thy  raven  eyes  ! 


A  DONNA  DONA.  343 

For,  setting  virgin  modesty  aside, 

Thou  didst  not  look  if  men  were  coming  near, 

But  in  thy  duty  buried'st  shame  and  pride, 

And  heldest  charity  than  time  more  dear. 

O  may  I  find,  if  ever  should  betide 

A  like  mishap  to  my  maturer  rear, 

As  little  of  repugnance  in  my  bride  !  " 


VI. 

A  DON1SA  DONA. 

BEL  discorso  ed  occhi  bei, 
Sospir  tronchi  e  finti  pianti, 
Baci,  son  d'  Amore  fanti, 
Ma  d'  ogni  altro  piu  vale  or. 
Chi  ha  questo,  benche  di  quei 
Non  si  serva,  ma  sia  altero, 
Sciocco,  aspro,  brutto  e  severe, 
Va  cogliendo  i  fior  d'  amor. 


VII. 
PARAPHRASE. 

WORDS  soft-spoken,  subtle  glances, 
Broken  sighs,  and  feigned  weeping, 
Kisses,  have  of  Love  the  keeping, 
But  't  is  gold  that  's  worth  them  all. 


344  TRIFLES. 

Who  this  holds,  yet  never  chances 
On  the  rest,  but  even  is  haughty, 
Silly,  rough,  ill-favor'd,  naughty, 
Makes  Love  come  and  go  at  call. 


VIII. 
SERENADE. 

OPE  the  window,  ROSALINE  ; 
Listen,  listen,  lady  mine. 
Hush  the  night,  no  dawn  is  breaking, 
Nothing  but  thy  lover  waking, 
'Neath  the  lattice  of  thy  dwelling 
Passionate  his  sorrows  telling. 
Lift  the  window,  ROSALINE  ; 
Listen,  listen,  lady  mine. 

Lady  cruel,  still  thou  sleepest, 
Still  unop'd  thy  window  keepest. 
Doth  no  dream  around  thee  hover, 
No  kind  vision  of  thy  lover  ? 
Him  who  quits  his  rest,  and  waking 
Singeth  thus,  with  bosom  aching  : 
Ope  the  window,  ROSALINE  ; 
List,  O  listen,  lady  mine  ! 

Is  it  thou  ?    Now  Heaven  bless  thee  ! 
'T  was  not  in  thee  to  distress  me, 
Thee  of  gentle  heart,  to  render 
Rude  disdain  for  passion  tender, 


TABLE  SONG.  J 

Sadness  o'er  his  spirit  flinging 
Who  for  thee  thus  waketh,  singing  : 
From  thy  window,  ROSALINE, 
Lean,  and  listen,  lady  mine  ! 

Hist  !  for  other  eyes  than  thine 

Now  are  watching,  ROSALINE. 

Ah,  withdraw  !  while  home  I  take  me, 

With  the  thoughts  that  ne'er  forsake  me, 

Happy  should  my  self-denial 

Spare  that  gentle  spirit  trial. 

Shut  the  window,  ROSALINE  ; 

Sleep,  nor  listen,  lady  mine. 


TABLE   SONG. 

DRINK  !  drink  !  whilst  we  may. 

Lads  and  lasses, 

Crown  your  glasses  : 
Soon  must  come  the  joyless  day. 

Now  her  curtain  Night  hangs  o'er  us, 
Love  'a  beside,  and  Mirth  before  us, 
Cup  in  hand,  and  lips  in  chorus, 
Let  us  drink,  and  sing,  and  play  : 
Fal  la  lah,  and  —  fal  la  lay  ; 

And  be  gay. 

Drink  !  drink  !  whilst  we  may. 
Etc. 


346  TRIFLES. 

Think,  how  soon  the  morning  shining 
Bringeth  trouble  and  repining. 
To  enjoyment,  then,  inclining, 
Let  us  drink,  and  sing,  and  play  : 
Fal  la  lah,  and  —  fal  la  lay  ; 

And  be  gay. 

Drink  !  drink  !  whilst  we  may. 
Etc. 

Who  shall  say  our  hearts  to-morrow 
Are  not  doom'd  to  some  new  sorrow  ? 
From  the  night  then  let  us  borrow 
Hours  of  joy,  to  sing  and  play  : 
Fal  la  lah,  and  —  fal  la  lay  ; 

And  be  gay. 

Drink  !  drink  !  whilst  we  may. 
Etc. 

See  the  fire  in  CLARA'S  glances  ! 
Frolic's  self  in  FLORA'S  dances  ; 
ELLEN'S  .  .  .     Pour  !  each  cup  enhances 
Love's  true  joys  ;  and  sing,  and  play  ; 
Fal  la  lah,  and  — fal  la  lay  ; 

And  be  gay. 

Drink  !  drink  !  whilst  we  may. 
Etc. 

With  the  light  those  eyes,  less  daring. 
Of  their  joy  will  be  more  sparing  ; 
Friendship's  brow  too  shall  be  wearing 
More  reserve.     Then  sing,  and  play  : 


SONG.  347 

Fallalah,  and—  fal  la  lay  ; 

And  be  gay. 
Drink  !  drink  !  whilst  you  may. 

Lads  and  lasses, 

Crown  your  glasses. 
Quick  !  ere  come  the  joyless  day. 


X. 

SONG. 

LEAVE,  sweet  bird,  my  pensive  bow'r, 
Music  ill  accords  with  pain  ; 
Fly  me  till  some  happier  hour, 
Fly  me  now,  but  come  again  ; 
Come  when  comes  the  leaf  and  flow'r  : 
Late  thy  song,  sweet  bird,  and  vain  ; 
Fly  me  then  till  happier  hour, 
Songstress  sweet,  but  come  again  ; 
Come  again  ! 

Careless  bird,  thou  warblest  still  ! 
Seest  thou  not  my  brow  is  sad  ? 
Tremble  on  that  little  bill 
Strains  which  suit  the  free  and  glad. 
Sere  the  leaf  and  gone  the  flow'r  ; 
Silly  bird,  then  why  remain  ? 
Fly  away  till  happier  hour, 
Songstress  sweet,  but  come  again  ; 
Come  again  ! 


348  TRIFLES. 

Yet,  sing  on  ;  why  grudge  thy  pleasure 
What  to  me  thy  notes  are  glad  ? 
Joy  and  Sorrow  move  in  measure,  — 
Others  gay  when  we  are  sad. 
What  though  wither'd  leaf  and  flow'r, 
Songstress  sweet,  resume  thy  strain  ; 
Wait  not  till  a  happier  hour,  — 
Warble  now,  and  come  again  ; 
Come  again  ! 


XI. 
WOMAN.     AN  APOLOGUE. 

WHEN  from  the  ever-blooming  bowers  were  driven 
Our  great  first  parents,  thus,  by  Heaven's  command, 
The  expelling  angel  spake  to  weeping  EVE  : 

"On  thee,  unhappy  EVE,  has  GOD  bestow'd, 
Above  all  else  that  moves  beneath  the  skies, 
Beauty,  for  Man's  attraction.     Nor  does  GOD 
Recall  what  he  hath  given.     But,  seeing  that  thou 
For  ADAM'S  ruin  hast  misus'd  the  gift, 
To  counteract  it,  lo  !  the  OMNIFIC  adds 
What  shall  make  Man  despise  its  power,  —  Caprice." 

Then,  when  without  the  Garden  gate  mov'd  EVE, 
With  step  irresolute  and  head  deject, 
In  the  broad  shadow  of  her  husband's  form,  — 
Who  walk'd  a  pace  before,  in  solemn  thought. 


WOMAN.  349 

Sad,  but  submissive  to  his  Maker's  will,  — 

The  Devil,  in  likeness  of  a  sparrow,  lit 

Upon  her  roseate  shoulder's  comely  slope, 

Which,  here  and  there,  between  the  glistering  waves 

Of  her  down-floating  and  disheveFd  hair, 

Shone  like  the  almond's  blossoms  'mid  its  boughs, 

And  said  : 

"  Though  GOD  hath  given  thee  caprice, 
And  it  shall  weary  Man,  and  make  him  yearn 
To  break  from  his  inthralment,  fear  not  thou  ; 
For  I  will  cause  that  it  shall  bind  him  more. 
Lo,  I  will  put  into  thine  eyes  desire, 
And  hesitation  on  thy  lips.     Thou  shalt 
Affect  deep  passion,  and  shalt  feel  it  not, 
Feel  it  and  shalt  deny  it  ;  thy  life  shall  be 
A  daily  lie  ;  thine  eyes  shall  lie  ;  thy  smile 
Shall  be  deceitful,  and  thy  frown  deceitful ; 
And  Man,  though  struggling,  shall  be  still  thy  slave." 

Then  through  her  tears,  and  through  her  clustering 

locks, 

Smil'd  EVE,  well-pleas'd,  and,  parting  from  her  lips, 
And  from  her  blushing  cheek,  with  gesture  sweet, 
The  natural  veil  of  shadowing  tresses  bright 
That  o'er  the  roses  of  her  bosom  hung 
Down  to  her  swelling  loins,  the  sparrow  kiss'd. 

And,  from  that  time,  Man's  wedded  days  were  days 
As  those  of  April,  sunshine  half,  half  shower. 


FRAGMENT  IN  CONTINUATION 


VISION    OF    RUBETA 


....    Coscienza  fusca, 
O  della  propria  o  dell'  altrui  vergogna, 
Pur  sentira  la  tua  parola  brusca; 

Ma,  nondimen,  rimossa  ogni  menzogna, 
Tutta  tua  VISION  fa  manifesto, 
E  lasciar  pur  grattar  dov'  e  la  rogna  : 

Che,  se  la  voce  tua  sara  molesta 
Nel  primo  gusto,  vital  nutrimento 
Lascera  poi  quando  sara  digesta. 

DANTE. 

Conscience  will  intrude, 
Or  of  their  own,  or  of  their  fellows'  shame, 
To  make  thy  wholesome  words  seem  harsh  and  rude  : 

Yet,  not  the  less,  of  falsehood  scorn  the  name  ; 
Give  all  thy  VISION  to  the  public  light, 
And  where  the  sin  is,  there  let  rest  the  blame  : 

For,  though  thy  speech  shall  savor  no  delight 
On  the  first  taste,  its  substance  then  shall  prove 
Vital  nutrition,  when  digested  quite. 


THE 

VISION    OF    RUBET  A. 

CANTO    FIFTH. 

HELL    AND    THE    DEVIL. 


In  a  vast  hall,  which  greater  space  o'erspread          33 
Than  Auburn's  fields  and  villas  of  the  dead, 
Or  those  near  Isis'  city,  where  grief  showers 
A  public  flood,  and  wo  's  express'd  by  flowers, 

Ver.  37.  Or  those,  etc.]  The  cemetery  of  Mont  Louis,  better  known 
as  Pkre,  Lachaise;  the  largest  in  the  vicinity  of  PARIS  ;  containing 
from  eighty  to  a  hundred  acres. —  On  the  first  and  second  of  No- 
vember, (All  Saints'  Day  and  the  Festival  of  the  Dead,)  it  is  a 
general  fashion  for  the  PARISIANS  to  decorate  the  tombs  of  their 
relatives  with  flowers  and  garlands.  The  scene  may  be  imagined, 
and  its  propriety. 

37.  —  Isis'  city  —  ]  One,of  the  conjectural  derivations  of  the 
name  of  the  French  metropolis,  is  that  a  temple  of  Isis  anciently 
stood  near  the  city,  whence  the  people  were  termed  Parisii  (as 
living  near  Isis,)  and  the  city  itself,  Paris.  This  is  not  so  proba- 
ble as  another,  but  it  is  sufficient  for  the  pencil  of  the  poet,  whose 
art  it  is  to  paint  by  periphrasis. 
30* 


354  VISION  OF   RUBETA. 

Were  throng'd  the  infernal  senate.     Not  yet  come 

Their  sceptred  head,  all  silent  was  the  dome,  40 

Save  where  a  whisper,  or  the  shifting  feet 

Of  some  archangel  passing  to  his  seat, 

Broke  on  their  ears,  who  waited  from  HELL'S  borders 

The  source  of  death  on  Earth  and  feminine  disorders. 

Was  darkness  o'er  that  area  ;    not  entire  :  45 

Through  the  dun  air  broad  tongues  of  lambent  fire 
Play'd  intermittent.     Such  they  went  and  came 
As  round  the  billet  curls  the  growing  flame 
Ere  the  green  bark  's  ignited,  or  as  gas 
Jets  from  a  seacoal  fire,  whose  glowing  mass  50 

Is  freshly  fuel'd  ;  rapid  as  the  glare 
Of  summer  lightning  in  the  midnight  air. 
Yet  as  in  cities,  on  a  misty  night, 
The  lamps  around  them  spread  but  scanty  light, 
Which,  distant  view'd,  seem  large  and  burning  bright;  55 
About  the  glass  a  circular  vapor  's  seen, 
Like  the  red  halo  round  the  silver  queen  ; 
So  serv'd  those  tongues  of  fire,  each  other  minute, 
Only  to  show  the  dark  to  HELL'S  dark  senate. 

Like  the  white  tops  of  surges,  seen  to  gleam  60 

Beneath  a  crescent  moon's  imperfect  beam, 
While  every  billow  else  is  heaving  black, 
And  the  pale  stars  shine  few  amid  the  rack, 
Sparkled  at  intervals,  as  went  and  came 
Over  the  gloom  those  floating  cressets'  flame,  65 

The  gemm'd  tiaras  of  the  infernal  Powers  ; 
And  their  hair  glisten'd,  like  grass  after  showers. 


CANTO  FIFTH.  355 

Now,  from  the  brazen  ordinance,  a  peal 
Thunder'd  terrific  through  the  gulfs  of  HELL, 
Signal  the  king  was  coming.     At  the  blast,  70 

The  smit  air,  struggling  for  escape,  upcast 
The  Earth's  foundations  ;  bellowing,  gave  a  groan 
From  all  his  caves  old  Sangai,  and  the  cone 
Of  Cahtopahhi,  heaving,  upward  threw, 
From  his  wide  fissures,  flames  of  sanguine  hue,  75 

Follow 'd  by  boiling  water.     Downward  fell 
The  enormous  torrent,  over  plain  and  dell, 
Village  and  pasture  :  stall  nor  cottage  stood ; 
Men,  cattle,  flocks  sunk  whelm'd  beneath  the  abundant 
flood. 

Ver.  es.  —  ordinance  —  ]     SHAKSPEARE  so  writes  it. 

72, 73.  —  belloicing,  gave  a  groan  From  all  his  caves  old  Sangai  —  ] 
Sangai  is  the  most  southerly  mountain  of  the  eastern  ridge  of  the 
Andes,  and  is  particularly  remarkable  for  its  frightful  noises,  which, 
according  to  Don  ANTONY  DE  ULLOA,  might  sometimes  be  heard 
at  the  distance  of  forty  leagues.  A  report  in  some  degree  corrob- 
orated by  the  testimony  of  more  recent  writers. 

735  74.  —  the  cone  of  Cahtopahhi  —  ]  The  shape  of  this  moun- 
tain (Catopaxi)  is  that  of  a  truncated  cone.  Its  height  LA  CONDA- 
MIXE  estimates  at  2950  toises. 

75,  re.  — flames  of  sanguine  hue  Followed  by  boiling  water.}  A 
peculiarity  of  the  volcanoes  of  the  Andes,  where,  I  believe,  lava 
has  never  been  found.  Of  the  eruption  of  1743  the  appearance 
and  consequences  were  precisely  such  as  are  described  in  the  text; 
the  flames  which  issued  from  the  various  apertures  near  the  sum- 
mit of  Catopaxi,  were  instantly  followed  by  a  vast  torrent  of  water, 
which  deluged  all  the  plain.  The  river  which  runs  by  LATACDNGA, 
swollen  by  the  flood,  rushed  over  its  banks ;  and  the  people  of  the 
town  were  obliged  to  fly  to  the  hills  to  avoid  being  involved  in  a 
like  ruin  with  their  habitations. 


356  VISION  OF  RUBETA. 

And  the  glad  fiends,  that,  rocking  to  and  fro,  SO 

Sat  on  the  crater's  verge,  the  shrieks  of  wo 
Caught  as  they  rose,  and  bade  more  water  flow  ; 
That  the  swoll'n  rivers  o'er  their  borders  ran, 
And  Havoc  mock'd  the  agony  of  man. 

But,  in  HELL'S  Westminster,  the  infernal  peers       85 
Caught  the  dread  signal  with  delighted  ears. 
Rustled  their  folded  pinions,  like  the  roar 
Of  winds  in  forest,  or  of  waves  on  shore. 
And  from  the  dome's  four  quarters  all  the  fires, 
That  floated,  rush'd  together,  and  in  spires  oo 

Tapering  each  one  end,  the  others  run, 
Like  globes  of  living-silver,  into  one  ; 
That  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  suspended, 
Motionless  hung  the  orb  of  flame,  extended 
On  every  side  its  points  a  thousand  ways  ;  95 

So  paints  in  gold  some  limner  Paean's  rays  ; 
And  light,  as  of  noonday  (a  day  of  ours,) 
Blaz'd  sudden  on  the  thrones  where  sat  the  Stygian 

Pow'rs. 

Not  otherwise  DE  JOINVILLE  saw  the  glare 
Of  Syrian  fires,  shot  'thwart  the  midnight  air,  100 

(What  time  by  Jlchmoun's  flood  ST.  Louis  lay,) 
Light  the  Frank  tents,  and  counterfeit  the  day. 


Ver.  97.  —  as  of  noonday  (a  day  of  ours,)  ]  As  bright  as  is  the 
light  of  noonday  on  earth. 

99-102.  J\fot  otherwise  DE  JoixyiLLE,  etc.]  In  the  crusade  which 
that  chivalrous  but  mistaking  monarch,  Louis  IX.,  made  against 


CANTO  FIFTH.  357 

an  unoffending  country,  and  for  which  he  was  sainted,  when  he 
should  more  properly  have  been  damned,  the  French  forces,  hav- 
ing encamped  by  the  canal  of  Achmoun  in  Lower  EGYPT,  were 
annoyed,  and  defeated  in  their  purpose  of  building  a  dyke  from  the 
canal  to  the  Nile,  by  the  wildfire,  which,  with  other  missiles,  the 
Mohammedans  hurled  against  the  workmen,  and  which  the  Sire  de 
JOINVILLE,  who  acted  so  gallant  a  part  in  the  crusade,  thus  de- 
scribes :  (I  cite  from  Savary  ;  Letters  on  Egypt;  Transl.  Vol  i. 
Lett.  xxv.  p.  302) :  "  JOINVILLE,  who  was  one  night  on  guard  at  the 
head  of  the  dyke,  gives  us  a  terrible  description  of  this  wildfire. 
<  This  fire,'  says  he, '  that  they  launched  at  us,  was  as  large  as  a 
barrel,  and  had  a  long  flaming  tail.  It  made  a  noise  like  thunder 
in  passing  through  the  air,  and  appeared  like  a  flying  dragon.'  The 
light  it  diffused  was  so  great  that  one  could  see  throughout  the 
whole  camp,  as  if  it  were  broad  day." 


NOTICE. 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  THIS  VOLUME 

INFORMS  THE  READING  PUBLIC, 

THAT  HE  WILL  SHORTLY  HAVE  READY  FOR  THE  PRESS 

AN 

ENTIRELY   NEW    EDITION 

OF 

THE    VISION    OF    RUBETA, 

TO  BE  PUBLISHED  BY  SINGLE  CANTOS, 

WITHOUT     OTHER    NOTES    THAN     SUCH    AS    SHALL     BE    ABSOLUTELY 
NECESSARY   FOR   THE    ELUCIDATION   OF    THE    TEST. 


RECOMMENDATIONS   OF  THE  WORK. 

This  is  a  remarkable  volume  —  remarkable  for  the  exquisite 
neatness  and  elegance  of  its  typography,  and  the  UNREDEEMED 
STUPIDITY  AND  COARSENESS  of  its  contents.  It  is  evidently  from 
'.he  pen  of  a  BLOCKHEAD  who  has  money  to  waste,  for  no  sane 
Bookseller  would  ever  have  embarked  in  such  an  enterprise,  in  the 
expectation  of  reimbursing  himself  by  the  sale  of  the  work.  Its 
object  as  we  gather  from  a  VERY  CURSORY  examination,  is  gross 
abuse  of  the  Commercial  Advertiser  and  American;  induced,  proba- 
bly, by  some  severe  castigation  received  ly  the  author  at  the  hands 
of  these  journals.  If  there  were  any  danger  that  the  book  would 
sell,  we  should  advise  all  respectable  publishers  to  DISMISS  IT  FROM 
THEIR  COUNTERS  —  for  it  is  MISERABLY  OBSCENE.  Its  UN- 
MITIGATED STUPIDITY,  however,  so  dulls  the  edge  of  libel, 
iiat  no  one  will  suffer  from  the  book  but  its  author,  and  no  one 
jrofit  by  it  but  the  trunk  makers.  We  will  do  the  justice,  how- 
ver,  both  to  publishers  and  author,  to  confess  that  they  have 
ssued  their  work  in  a  style  superior  to  any  thing  that  we  have  re- 
ently  seen.  In  this  respect  it  cannot  be  too  highly  commended, 
['hough  the  writer  is  a  very  poor  satirist,  we  infer  from  the  luxury 
nd  display  of  type  and  paper  in  which  he  indulges,  that  he  is  not 
f  the  class  of 'poor  authors.'  " 

Courier  and  Enquirer,  Oct.  18th,  1838. 

"We  have  some  reason  to,complain  of  the  author  or  publishers 
f  this  large  and  superbly  printed  octavo,  for  not  sending  us  a 
opy;  which  he  or  they  should  have  done  in  courtesy,  as  the 
reater  portion  of  its  contents  is  what  the  Star  is  pleased  to  call  a 


evere  and  galling  satire  upon  our  journal  and  ourselves.  Having 
tolerably  keen  relish  for  satire,  however,  and  no  objection  in  the 
lorld  to  being  made  the  subject  of  it,  we  have  borrowed  a  copy,  and 


stowed  a  couple  of  hours  upon  its  perusal.  We  cannot  agree 
th  our  editorial  neighbor  in  pronouncing  it '  a  work  that  evinces 
lents  of  the  highest  order  '  ;  nor  do  we  find  ourselves  particularly 


NOTICE. 

galled  by  its  severity.  It  certainly  is  SCURRILOUS  AND  ABUSIVE 
ENOUGH  ;  and  much  more  than  enough  FILTHY  AND  IN- 
DECENT. But  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  satire  and 
BILLINGSGATE;  and  WITH  PERFECT  SINCERITY  WE 

DECLARE    THAT    OUR   FEELINGS    HAVE    NOT    BEEN    RUFFLED     EVEN 

FOR  ONE  MOMENT,  in  the  reading  of  all  the  COARSE  EPI- 
THE  TS  and  scandalous  charges  heaped  upon  us  by  the  laborious 
c  satirist,'  nor  would  they  be  if  just  such  a  volume  were  to  be  pub- 
lished every  fortnight."  Etc. 

Commercial  Advertiser,  Oct.  19th,  1838. 

;  Our  own  feelings  would  prompt  us  to  take  no  farther  notice  of 
the  STUPID  but  ELABORATELY  SCURRILOUS  performance  men- 
tioned in  the  annexed  communication.  We  yield,  however,  to  the 
urgent  solicitations  of  the  icriter,  and  the  more  readily  because  the 
CATCHPENNY  TRICK  he  exposes  is  REALLY  a  very  prominent 
feature  of  the  volume,  iu  which  many  names  are  introduced,  and 

ly  introduced  with  the  evident  purpose  of  HELPING  THE  SALE  by 
stimulating  a  prurient  curiosity. 

"  To  the  Editors  of  the  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  Gentlemen— I  had  just  finished  the  reading  of '  Rubeta,'  the 
atirical  poem  of  which  you  speak  in  last  evening's  paper,  and  / 
honor  your  judgment  in  relation  to  the  book  and  its  author.  It  is 
throughout  a  VULGAR.  OBSCENE,  and  PROFANE  exhibition  of 
MALIGNITY,  which  can  inspire  no  other  sentiment  than  LOATHING 
AND  DISGUST  in  the  minds  of  all  men  of  any  pretensions  to 
character  or  decency.  As  you  and  your  paper  constitute  the  theme 
of  the  venom  of  this  NAMELESS  '  TOAD,'  I  am  glad  that  you 
exhibit  the  contempt  which  self-respect  inspires,  by  promptly  treating 
the  author  with  merited  scorn. 

But  apart  from  the  OUTRAGE  UPON  DECENCY  AND  PUBLIC  MOR- 
ALS, inflicted  by  such  a  COMPOUND  OF  FILTHY  AND  BLAS- 
PHEMOUS LANGUAGE,  being  issued  by  respectable  publishers 
n  Boston,  and  sold  by  a  bookseller  of  this  city,  the  public  should 
be  put  upon  their  guard  against  the  MERCENARY  ARTIFICES 
by  which  both  author  and  publishers  expect  to  make  it  sell. 

"  In  the  advertisement  a  long  catalogue  is  given  of  gentlemen 
and  ladies  whose  '  names  are  mentioned  in  the  book.'  This  is  a 
TRICK  to  induce  the  friends  of  these  individuals,  as  well  as  their 
enemies,  to  suppose  that  each  is  made  the  theme  of  the  satirist. — 
So  far  from  this  being  the  fact,  when  they  shall  be  gulled  by  this 
IMPOSITION  into  the  payment  of  TWO  DOLLARS  for  this  ponderous  oc- 
tavo, they  will  find  that  a  single  page  will  contain  all  that  is  said  of 
fifty  of  the  persons  whose  names  are  gazetted  as  though  they  were 

prominent  characters  in  the  poem.  With  the  exception  of , 

and  ,  upon  whom  this  'TOAD'  spits  his  RIBALDRY 

through  several  hundred  pages,  scarcely  a  line  of  the  book  is  be- 
stowed on  any  one  of  the  parties  named,  and  in  most  cases  the 
mere  introduction  of  the  surname  is  ALL  the  notice  taken  of  some 
of  the  most  prominent  in  the  list,  three  of  these  names  being  insert- 
ed in  a  single  line,  obviously  for  the  purpose  of  selling  the  book  to 
those  who  have  a  penchant  for  scandal.  Only  expose  THESE 
FACTS,  Pro  Bono  Publico." 

Commercial  Advertiser,  Oct.  20th,  1838. 


- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


rJAN  1  L 


2004 


Form  L9-32m.S,'57(.C8680s4)444 


Arthur 


ITBDERT  M^K    15 


PS 

2494 

081a 


